


In Screaming Color

by bizarrebird



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Grimmons, Background Relationships, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, background Sarge/Grey, background kimbalina, but only for like one chapter, hugs for Agent Washington, past untagged relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-10-13 23:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 48
Words: 277,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bizarrebird/pseuds/bizarrebird
Summary: It doesn’t occur to Wash that the colorful handprints all over him are anything out of the ordinary. Everyone has them. Marks of the first place a soulmate’s hand will fall. The fact that he has… well, a lot of them only seems weird when people point it out. Usually, they’re barely a blip on his radar, just another piece of him like his freckles or his scars. There’s more important things to think about.





	1. Never Go Out of Style: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle up friends! This is gonna be a long one. I've written some RvB fic before, but this is the first one I'm posting, so I hope it's not terrible! I'll try to keep updates regular, but my writing schedule is a little all over the place. This is Tuckington, I promise, but it's going to take a while to get there. The slow burn tag is there for a reason. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy this!

It doesn’t occur to Wash that the colorful handprints all over him are anything out of the ordinary. Everyone has them. Marks of the first place a soulmate’s hand will fall. The fact that he has… well, a lot of them only seems weird when people point it out. Usually, they’re barely a blip on his radar, just another piece of him like his freckles or his scars. There’s more important things to think about.

“Holy shit, Wash.”

York’s voice catches him by surprise. Wash glances over to find both York and North staring at him from their lockers. He looks down at himself, at first searching for blood. Maybe he had gotten hurt on the last mission without realizing it. Nope. Not a scratch. He almost asks until he notices that York seems to be counting. Oh.

Face heating up, Wash curls his hands into the shirt he just took off. Maybe he should just put it back on. He could always just come back and shower later when there’s no one around. But York’s already moving closer and the door is on the other side of the room.

“How many do you have?” York’s eyes are raking over him and he’s not really sure what that tone means. There’s something there that might be jealousy, but… no that’s not quite it.

“I don’t…” He trails off as his eyes flick between both of them and he sighs. Cause all three of them know for damn sure that you know exactly how many marks you’ve got. “Thirteen. That’s--that’s not weird, right?”

York crosses his arms over his chest and leans against a locker, slight frown on his face. “Wouldn’t know, I’ve just got three. What about you, North?”

“Four. South has two.” He pauses and winces. “Don’t tell her I told you. She gets kinda touchy about that.”

“Have you met any of them?” York asks, bringing the attention back to Wash. “I mean, y’know, other than…”

He uncrosses his arms and lifts up a hand. Wash doesn’t even think before mirroring him, the gold on his right hand meeting the slate gray on York’s left. There’s a slight warm tingle as the marks meet. It’s more comforting than anything else. They had discovered that early on, the first time they had both been down a glove and gone for a high five.

Wash shakes his head. “Just you two,” he says, eyes flicking to North, who’s wink in return makes his face go red. “What about you?”

“Other than you and Carolina, there’s just this asshole,” York says, rubbing at the almost luminescent green hand print on the back of his neck.

Wash rolls his eyes “You don’t know that they’re going to be an asshole.”

But York shakes his head. “Just a feeling I’ve got. Whoever this is, they’re gonna be a real pain in the neck.”

North meets Wash’s eyes and shrugs. Later, when they meet Delta, they still insist they have no idea what York’s talking about.

* * *

“Whoa, Maine, just stop, you have to calm down--would you just stop for one second!”

It’s a bad day, for all of them. South and Carolina had been snarling at each other the entire way back and Wash had almost gotten his head bitten off for trying to get in the middle. Maine had thrown his helmet so hard once they reached the lockers that Wash is still pretty sure it’s embedded in the wall. York’s voice had followed him out of the room, telling him to just let Maine go.

But he can’t.

Maine is massive, but his lumbering steps are slower than usual. He really needs someone to look at his knee. Wash knew he had seen him take a hit, but noooo can’t go and have injuries looked at. Everyone has to tough it out, soldier on.

It’s enough to let Wash get around him. “I know you’re pissed. We all are, but you can’t just--you really need to--goddamn it just stop!”

He slams a hand into Maine’s chest. The stopping power is like a pebble hitting a tsunami. It’s a miracle nothing breaks. But then, something strange happens.

Maine stops.

Dark eyes lock on Wash’s hand, a slight furrow forming between Maine’s brows. For a second, Wash is pretty sure he’s about to lose the hand. Well, he’s always meant to teach himself to be ambidextrous. Goodbye righty, you will be missed.

But Maine doesn’t snap his wrist like a twig and then eat it. His eyes slowly drift to Wash’s face, head tipping slightly to one side. He’s been around Maine long enough to know his thinking face. Maine lifts up a hand. It hovers over Wash’s, but doesn’t settle. Goosebumps rise on his skin as Maine’s hand, less than an inch away, moves down his arm, his shoulder, his side.

And settles at his hip.

_Oh._

Wash is pretty sure he’s an idiot. Giant white handprint on his hip and he never even thought. He’s still not really doing a whole lot of thinking. There’s this strange, almost electric feeling spreading from the contact. It’s not like the soft, warm comfort that comes when York takes his hand, or the gentle calm when North draws near enough to steady him. This is fire in his veins that he doesn’t want to stop.

He’s still not thinking when Maine leans down and kisses him. It’s been a while since he’s done this, he can’t quite remember what to do with his hands, so he just leaves the one on Maine’s chest. This isn’t something he’s thought about much, but somehow, it’s exactly what he expects. Maine is firm and demanding and Wash barely notices them moving until his back hits the wall and he lets out a noise that’s definitely not a surprised squeak.

Maine pulls back, smirking.

“Shut up.” Wash knows his face is burning as he tries to fight down a smile. He’s not quite sure what that feeling in his gut is, but it’s more welcome than what’s been sitting there for weeks.

It stays as Maine grabs his wrist and tugs him down the hall to his quarters.

And it’s still there the next morning as he quietly tries to slip out before training, only to come face to face with York, South, and Carolina as the door slides shut behind him. Judging by the armor, it’s definitely later than Wash thinks. Shit. They’re probably both late. His brain quickly supplies several other issues for him to think about and his face goes red.

“Uh… I can explain.” He tries not to wince at the crack in his voice.

York’s just staring, eyes so wide it looks like they might just fall out of his head. Carolina has a hand pressed to her mouth, and for a second he thinks it’s shock, but then he sees her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. And then there’s South.

“Holy fucking shit. No way--there’s no way in hell. You and Maine? Seriously Wash?” He’s not quite sure if she sounds angry or amused. Well, she always sounds a little angry.

Wash rubs at his neck, eyes flicking to the floor. “Well--I uh. We just--it’s um.”

The door slides open and a very shirtless Maine strides out. It’s easy to see the steely gray hand print slapped right in the middle of his chest. He looks toward the other three, South’s gone mercifully silent. There’s the faintest of smirks on Maine’s face as he grabs Wash by the arm and pulls him in. Wash is pretty sure that the dip is unnecessary, but he forgets all of his complaints when Maine does that thing with his teeth that makes his knees go weak. He’s a little dazed when Maine pulls back and looks at the others.

“Problem?” asks the deep, rumbling growl.

“Nope,” York says quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. “No problems here, big guy.”

Carolina has her hands on her hips. “We just came by to see why you weren’t in the locker room yet. You two need to get a move on, we’re due on the training floor in ten minutes.”

Maine grunts and nods, squeezing Wash’s arm before retreating back into his room. Wash watches him go, an absent smile on his face. It slides right off when South starts gagging. York elbows her. “South, c’mon. Don’t be like that.”

Wash lets out a breath. “Thank you.”

“I think it’s adorable.”

“Never mind. I hate you.”

* * *

For a while, the feeling lingers. Missions don’t always go well, they move up and down the board, but at least Wash has this. Then York loses his eye and Maine loses his voice and the world gets a little more unsteady. He holds both of them where he can, but things are changing.

North and York talk in low voices, AIs hovering at their shoulders. Carolina never seems to leave the training room. Connie just leaves.

Wash knows Sigma helps. Or that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. The AI is meant to be Maine’s voice, but there’s something about him, something Wash can’t quite figure out that seems wrong. Delta and Theta were meant for York and North, they’ve got the marks to prove it, but he’s pretty damn sure he would have noticed Maine having one for Sigma.

He’s never sure what to make of the fact that he _is_ meant for Epsilon other than the fact that the universe has a sick sense of humor.

They put him under and all he knows is pain.

Allison is gone. She’s dead. And it’s his fault. But it isn’t.

He’s frozen, his limbs heavy, immobile. The world shifts and bends and lurches under him and he can’t move. Ice slides through his veins as the darkness starts to lift. Plans and schematics and numbers unfold before him. But there’s too many. They move too fast. The lines blur together and he can’t keep up. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

He opens his eyes and smells smoke. The street before him is a wreck. Broken cars lie in burning piles. There’s so much blood. His stomach turns, and the world spins. Unsteady legs carry him forward until he rounds the flaming wreckage. Bodies line the street. Familiar bodies.

York lies on his back, spread eagle, both eyes burnt out, mouth open in a last silent scream. Carolina is next to him, their hands an inch away from touching, a hole blown through her gut, one leg nearly torn away completely. The twins are motionless, crushed beneath a car, blood coating the ground around them. Connie’s body is a foot away from her head. Maine never made it to the ground, the axle impaling him through the chest keeping him suspended. Washington lies next to him, throat slit, eyes unseeing.

And in the middle of the carnage, atop a burning car, is Tex, one hand outstretched toward him.

He wasn’t fast enough. The bile rises in his throat and he falls to his knees. It’s his fault. All his fault.

“No,” he hears himself say. But that’s not his voice. Or… or is it? “This is wrong. They’re not-- _I’m_ not dead.”

Who?

He looks at the bodies again, eyes landing on Washington. It’s him. And it isn’t. The fire dims. The world melts away leaving him drifting.

Drifting, but not alone.

There’s another person in his head. Another voice. Another life.

Wash turns, trying to see through the darkness as he drifts and drifts until his feet hit solid ground. He glances about, frowning. This… isn’t familiar, but it feels like it should be. Something recognizes it--or someone. The backyard is small, almost quaint, massive trees leaving half of it in shadow. He hears laughter flit from the house, that too he almost knows. But he turns away, looking at the figure curled in on itself beneath the trees.

He approaches slowly and drops to one knee. The man is flickering around the edges, dark hair tinged with an eerie blue. Wash hesitates before carefully putting a hand on his shoulder. “Epsilon,” he says, the name coming to him automatically.

But it feels wrong, sounds wrong. Alpha. Leonard. Church. Director. Epsilon. Wash’s other hand flies up to his head, a sharp stab of pain jolts through him.

“I’m sorry.”

Wash blinks the pain away and finds Epsilon staring at him, familiar green eyes wet and more frightened than he ever thought possible. Though he’s much younger and still flickering in and out, there’s no mistaking the Director’s face. His mouth opens and shuts, but he can’t find the words.

“This is mine,” Epsilon says after a moment, looking at the world around them. He lays his hand against one of the trees, his expression clouded over. “I think… I lived here. Or he did. The Director. I’m not him anymore, am I?”

“No, you’re… you’re a piece of an AI.”

“Alpha. I-I was Alpha. But now I’m--what did you call me?”

“Epsilon,” Wash says, trying to keep his tone gentle, his hand still resting on Epsilon’s shoulder gives a slight squeeze. “Your name is Epsilon. You’re my AI.”

“Epsilon…” Slowly, his edges stop flickering and he looks a little more solid. He nods and then looks around again, stopping as his eyes look upward and go wide.

“What are you look--” Wash stops as he turns to look the same way.

The sky is broken, a jagged tear running down the middle. But it’s not the sky, it’s… it’s his head. There’s another jolt of pain, white hot, almost blinding. Wash clutches at his hair. He shuts his eyes tightly. Memories flash. A little girl with blonde hair and bright green eyes. Connie setting up targets for knife practice. Carolina snapping off a salute that brings a twinge of guilt. He forces it down and turns back to the screens in front of him--

“Wash.”

He opens his eyes, breath coming in sharp bursts. Epsilon has one hand on the back of his neck, over where his implants should be, cupping them gently, almost protectively, the other hand on his cheek. Concern his written all over his face. “I’m sorry. I can’t make it stop. Fuck. The memories, they just--shit, they keep coming.”

Wash shakes his head, hands coming up to curl around Epsilon’s wrists. “It’s alright. This isn’t your fault.”

He shuts his eyes, gritting his teeth, another memory flashing through. Anger follows the pain this time, it’s almost more blinding.

“They did this to you--the Director. He’s… he’s still doing it, isn’t he? To Alpha?”

Wash manages to get his eyes open again to find panic and apprehension on Epsilon’s face. “I… I don’t know. Probably. He wouldn’t stop unless he had to.”

“Or unless someone made him.” Wash feels his lips curl into an expression he doesn’t quite recognize. His thumb moves gently over Epsilon’s wrist. Maybe it’s because it’s all in his head, but it feels real in his grasp.

Epsilon frowns, one brow rising. “What? You’re gonna march up there and tell him to cut the shit? That’s gonna happen.”

Wash rolls his eyes. “Well, alright, I’m not just going to walk right in, but… I’m going to do something, alright? I can feel it. What he did to you--you can’t expect me to just walk away from that.”

“Uh, yeah, I can. We literally just met dude. You don’t even know me.”

Lips pressed to a flat line, Wash blinks at him and then up at the world around him. Epsilon winces. “Alright, you kinda do now. Sort of. This sharing a brain shit is fucking weird, man.”

“You’re telling me. It’s my brain.”

Epsilon makes a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. It’s enough to make the corner of Wash’s lips curl up in the faint beginnings of a smile. Enough to make him think that things might actually work.

* * *

It takes Epsilon a few days to settle. Although Wash doesn’t quite realize that until he wakes up.

The lights of the infirmary burn as he slowly opens his eyes. His limbs feel heavy. Epsilon buzzes around his head, fussing and fretting and cursing up a storm. He looks at himself and his brow furrows. Someone took his armor. His arms are covered in handprints. Those aren’t his. He’s never had marks on his arms, there’s Allison’s on--

No. That’s not his. He shuts his eyes again and takes a breath. They’ve tried to sort out where the memories go. There’s a pile for Epsilon’s, one for his, and the Director’s are shoved back behind a wall they built together. But those don’t like to stay put. None of them do. It’s kind of a pain in the ass.

“Hey, look who’s still alive.”

Wash squints, face scrunched up as he gives this being awake thing another try. North is peering down at him, smile on his face, worry in his eyes, one hand gently resting on Wash’s shoulder. He blinks at the hand for a moment and his own seems to be moving in slow motion as it finally comes to settle on top of North’s.

“You had us worried there for a while, kiddo.”

“What happened?” Wash doesn’t recognize his voice for a second. It’s tired and heavy and lacks that distinct drawl he keeps hearing in his head.

“Your implantation was a little rough. They’re still not sure what happened. The doctors think you might have had a bad reaction to something they gave you,” North says, but there’s something a little off. Like he doesn’t quite believe the words.

_Play dumb._

Thanks Epsilon, he knows. Wash nods slowly and then presses a hand to his head. The sharp shooting pains have faded, but there’s still a dull throb now and then.

_I’m working on it. Stop whining, you baby._

Wash can’t stop himself from making a face as he rubs at his temple. North seems to notice, head tipping to one side. “Is the new arrival settling in alright? I hope you two are getting along in there.”

“We’re… working things out. He’s kind of an asshole.”

_Hey speak for yourself, bitch._

North laughs. “Well, maybe you could let me talk to him. I could try to mediate.”

“Uh…” With the way Epsilon looks, that’s going to complicate things.

_Don’t worry, I’ve got this._

“Yeah, alright. Where’s my armor?” He pushes himself up. North’s hand instantly goes to his back helping him sit up. A soft, soothing calm washes over him as North’s fingers line up with the mark just above the base of his spine. It helps fight the dizziness that threatens to send him right back down.

“Easy, you’ve been out for a while. You might feel a little off balance the first time you get up. Here, they put the rest of your armor in your locker, but I grabbed your helmet, thought you might want it,” North says, pulling the helmet from under the chair next to Washington’s hospital bed.

“Thanks.” Wash sets the helmet in his lap and then stares at it. They can project the AI, he knows that much, but he’s not quite sure how… Epsilon figures it out for him.

There’s a little crackle of static in his head and a small blue, armored figure pops into being on top of the helmet. Well, at least that takes care of him looking like the director. Huh… do the others look like that under their armor too? Theta probably looks even younger...

Epsilon nudges him with a gentle pulse, pulling his attention back. He blinks back to reality. “North, this is Epsilon. Epsilon, be nice.”

“Oh fuck you, I’m always nice.” Epsilon looks up at North. Wash feels the critical analysis pile up and rubs at his temple. “Sup. So you’re the hot blonde Wash’s always talking about.”

“Epsilon!” Wash presses his face into his hands, face going red.

“What? You’re the one thinking it.” Epsilon crosses his arms over his chest, turning away. But there’s a gentle pulse this time. It feels like a question.

_Too much?_

No… no that’s alright. Especially with the way North is trying to hide a laugh. And really, it’s not Wash’s fault that he’s on a team full of ridiculously good looking super soldiers. Not noticing that is kind of impossible.

“I suppose that would be me, unless he means South,” North says, friendly as ever.

Epsilon taps at where his chin would be if he weren’t wearing a helmet. “Nah, Wash is scared of her. He’s scared of most of the girls.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t blame him for that. They’re a little… intense.”

Epsilon snorts. “That’s a word for it.”

North laughs faintly, and then turns away at a ping from his datapad. “That’ll be the others. The doctors said you might wake up today. I sent them a ping when it seemed like you were coming around. If you’re not up to company--”

“I want to see them,” Wash says, so fast he surprises himself a little. He knows it’s not real, they’re not even things he should remember seeing, but it’s hard to get the bloody, brutalized bodies out of his head.

His eyes flick to Epsilon automatically as a wave of guilt surges through his head. He gives the faintest shake of his head, trying to think soothing thoughts. It’s not Epsilon’s fault. Not like he wants that in his head anymore than Wash does. North seems to miss the exchange, his eyes still on messages coming in on the datapad.

“That’s good, I’m not sure I could stop them if I wanted to. You’ve had us all pretty worried, Wash.”

Wash ducks his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean--”

North’s hand lands on his shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. “It’s not your fault. The doctors have always said that the implantation process can have its complications. You just had the bad luck of getting it the worst right from the start.”

_No fucking shit._

Wash nearly blows it right there, nearly asks North if he felt like his head was ripped apart when they shoved someone else inside. But the door opens at the other end of the infirmary and he looks over and the pain is back, sharp and burning as soon as he sees aqua armor and red hair. Epsilon’s form flickers out instantly, but Wash barely notices. He hisses and doubles over, pressing his head to the top of his helmet, knuckles white where he clutches at it.

Footsteps clatter over and North’s arm is around him. There’s voices, but he can barely hear. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.

In his head, Carolina is young, so very young, bright eyes and big smiles. Until they fade. Until he makes them fade. He chips away at her little by little. Molds her, breaks her down. His daughter. His _child_.

“--was fine a second ago?”

“York, get one of the doctors.”

Her voice.

Wash jerks up and his arm shoots out, grabbing Carolina by the arm. His vision swims. Her hair looks blonde. Red. Blonde. Red. She looks just like her mother. And it burns.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out in a desperate voice that’s his but isn’t.

Carolina stares at him, eyes wide and worried. She sits on the side of his bed and makes no effort to pull away, gently rubbing at his arm. “Wash, what’s wrong? Are you in pain? Is it your AI? Talk to me.”

“I--I…” He takes a breath and closes his eyes. They’re all staring and the world is shifting and swirling and it feels like he’s going to be sick.

There’s a soft, gentle pulse. Epsilon. Wash can almost feel him moving around in his head, shoving memories back behind that wall. Whispers of soothing apologies course through his mind. His stomach settles, the pain fades. He can do this.

Wash opens his eyes and finds the three of them hovering over him. North’s on one side, Carolina on the other, York at her shoulder tense and ready to go for help.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice more even than he expects. “Just a little headache.”

North and York exchange a look and Carolina frowns. None of them seem at all convinced. He tries for a little smile. “Guys, really, I’m okay, stop looking at me like that.”

Wash lets go of Carolina’s arm and reaches for York, who moves almost on impulse to meet him, hand to hand. That seems to at least ease a little of the tension out of his shoulders. “Just stop scaring us like that, asshole,” he says, moving closer to ruffle Wash’s hair with his other hand. “Thought your brain was gonna start pouring out your ears.”

“Wait, can that happen?”

“Hell if I know. But don’t go getting any ideas like that.”

“I’ll try not to,” he says, managing a grin that feels a little more genuine this time.

“Wash.” Carolina’s voice almost makes him wince. It’s soft and gentle, but there’s that slight curious edge.

He slowly meets her eyes, trying to keep his expression neutral. Her head’s tipped a little to one side, those green eyes staring straight through him. “You said you were sorry. What did you mean?”

_Think of something good. No better than that. She’s never gonna buy it._

Epsilon isn’t helpful. Wash let’s his eyes drop to the helmet in his lap, his hands falling back to it, running over the smooth metal. “I’m sorry for being weak,” he says softly.

“What do you mean?” He can hear the frown in Carolina’s voice.

He shrugs. “None of you were out for more than a day. You’ve got two of them and you were up in six hours.”

“And then I was out for three days,” she says, covering one of his hands with hers and gently squeezing. “We’ve all got the talks about the side effects. It doesn’t mean that you’re weak for things not going perfectly.”

“Doesn’t it though?” he asks, managing to get his voice to break intentionally. There’s a faint clapping in his head from Epsilon.

_Alright, now bring it home._

“I know I’m the worst fighter on the squad. I’ve never really measured up with any of you.”

_Okay, little heavy on the melodrama there, might wanna pull back._

“Wash, you know I was messing with you,” York says, rubbing at his shoulder guiltily.

Carolina and North turn to him instantly. North isn’t quite glaring, but he looks disappointed, which is almost as bad with him. “Did you really tell him that?”

“Just the first part, and I was joking… mostly.”

With a huff, Carolina rolls her eyes, attention going back to Wash. “Don’t listen to him, alright? Wait for him to open a lock in the field before you start thinking he knows who’s the best around here.”

Wash can’t stop himself from laughing at that as York makes an indignant sound. It gets easier from there. The doctors shoo the three of them out not long after, saying he needs his rest, and Wash can’t exactly argue with that.

When he gets out of the infirmary the next day, back in his armor (which North was nice enough to drop off), Carolina is waiting for him. He’s not totally sure why as she doesn’t say much before falling in step with him.

They’re almost to his room before she finally speaks. “I’m sorry.”

The words catch him by surprise and he nearly stumbles as he turns to stare at her. She’s not looking at him, her hand coming up to the back of her neck almost absently. “One of mine should’ve been yours. If I hadn’t taken it--”

“It’s fine, boss,” he says quickly. She finally looks at him, still frowning. “I think… it’s going to sound strange, but I think I was supposed to get Epsilon.”

There’s a faint warm pulse from his implants, almost like an affectionate nuzzle. He reaches up to the back of his neck. The handprint is right under the ports, a now familiar light blue.

Carolina eyes him for a moment, looking almost like she wants to argue. But then she lets out a breath. “I don’t regret taking both of them,” she says finally. “But you and South deserved better than being jerked around so I could get what I wanted. Lately… I’ve had a hard time seeing anything other than that.”

There’s a wave of… something from Epsilon. Guilt maybe? It doesn’t hurt, but it makes Wash lose a step, his hand flying up to the side of his head as he stumbles.

Arms catch him instantly and his other hand automatically finds Carolina’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Do you need to go back to the infirmary?”

Wash shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Just a little dizzy. Epsilon’s still… getting settled.”

She’s still frowning, arms still bracing him.

“I’m fine, Carolina, really. Don’t worry, it’s just--”

“I want to talk to him.”

Wash blinks.

_Uh oh._

“To who?”

Carolina stares at him like he’s just said something profoundly stupid. Which… he sort of has. “Epsilon.”

_Tell her to fuck off. I can’t, Wash. She’s--_

He knows. Epsilon’s buzzing around in his head, bouncing off the walls. If he keeps going, he’s going to knock a whole bunch of shit loose. “Uh. He’s… shy.”

There’s a stab of annoyance so strong that he flinches, fingers twitching as his hand shoots back to the side of his head. How the hell can Carolina stand having two AI in her head?

_Get rid of her, I can’t deal with this bullshit._

“Wash are you--is it hurting you?”

Her hands move as if to inspect his head, but he bats them away and steadies himself as he steps back. “It’s fine, boss,” he says, a little more firmly this time. “I can handle it. I don’t need you checking up on me. You haven’t in weeks and somehow I’ve pulled through.”

Carolina looks more lost than hurt as she takes an impulsive step back. “What?”

“The rest of us have managed to get by while you’ve been chasing Texas.” His voice hitches on the word and there’s another stab of pain that has him wincing even as Epsilon rushes to ease it. He takes another step back, holding out a hand as if to stop Carolina coming any closer.

She doesn’t try.

The pain doesn’t quite let up, Epsilon’s trying, but it’s still there, pulsing behind the wall, making him squint his eyes almost shut. “So if you’re here to ease a guilty conscience, look somewhere else. It’s not my job to make you feel better about yourself so you can leave us behind and go off and get yourself killed just like--”

Allison. Connie. Allison. _She looks so much like her mother._

Wash bites off a noise that’s not quite a scream as pain explodes behind his eyes. His back is against the wall when his vision clears, his chest heaving. Carolina hasn’t moved, she’s frozen in place, eyes wide, and expression he’s never seen before on her face. “Wash,” she says, her voice soft, almost scared.

“I-I have to go.”

And he runs. He doesn’t stop until he’s halfway across the ship in a deserted hallway. There’s not enough air, he can’t breathe. Pressing his back to the wall, he scrambles at the releases and wrenches off his helmet tossing it away. Epsilon’s muttering and fussing in his head, but there’s pain and panic and it’s not all his and he can’t--

“Wash breathe.”

Epsilon’s voice outside his head catches him by surprise. His helmet must not have landed that far away because the little blue avatar is floating just in front of him, tiny hands reaching for his face. Wash can feel his breath coming in sharp uneven bursts as he tips his head back against the wall and shakes his head. “I can’t--I can’t--Epsilon, make it stop!”

“I’m trying, but you just need to calm down.”

He wants to laugh, but there’s a desperation to Epsilon’s voice. Then it hits--he’s just as panicked as Wash. Nodding, Wash shuts his eyes and slides down the wall, sitting on the floor. There’s still too much in his head, too much that isn’t his. He can’t tell where it ends and stops.

“Wash, hey, look at me.”

He does, finding Epsilon before him again. On impulse, he reaches out, hands forming a platform. Epsilon immediately moves, flickering form appearing in his open palms. “Alright, uh, let’s try counting, okay? That’s what they do in movies, right?”

Wash rolls his eyes, but he does it anyway. They get to ten and he can breathe again, though his legs are still far too shaky for him to try to stand. So they just sit there for a few minutes. Epsilon starts talking, not about anything in particular, just some stupid story. Wash thinks it’s actually one of his, but he just nods along. Somewhere between Epsilon laughing at him and the gentle, calming pulses, he pulls himself together.

* * *

He tries to act like nothing’s changed, but he’s always been better at melodrama than playing it cool. York and North keep giving him these looks, asking if he’s alright, never looking like they really buy it when he says he’s fine. Carolina avoids him. Or maybe he avoids her. Probably some of both. But that’s for the better. There’s a twinge of guilt any time they’re in the same room and he can never quite tell where it’s coming from.

That’s almost worse than the pain.

Epsilon helps him sort through it all daily. There’s too many memories in his head, and it’s almost like they can tell that it’s wrong. They try to force themselves to fit together, bits of the Director’s life bleeding in, trying to fill gaps that aren’t there. He keeps waking up, looking for a wedding ring he never had and reaching for glasses he doesn’t need to stare at soulmarks he doesn’t remember.

But those start to help. He tells Epsilon about them, the people he imagines they belong to, the ones he knows. It’s when he starts doing that that he realizes he hasn’t seen Maine since the implantation and there’s a surge of guilt that’s all his own.

They’ve been drifting, he can feel it. Since the accident and Sigma, Maine hasn’t spent much time with anyone, and Wash has been letting him. But now… maybe he could understand.

He paces outside Maine’s room after training, helmet tucked under his arm.

_Jesus, just knock._

Wash makes a face. He can’t just go in there, not without knowing what to say. He has to do this right.

_Oh my god, just tell him you wanna get laid._

Wash sputters. “That’s not what I’m--”

He cuts himself off as the door to Maine’s room slides open and the familiar massive figure steps out into the hall. His helmet must be nearby, because Maine’s face is uncovered, the fiery form of Sigma floating just above his shoulder.

Epsilon shivers in his head and Wash doesn’t blame him.

“Hello, Agent Washington. It is good to see you,” Sigma says in that too calm voice. “We’ve been meaning to pay you a visit.”

“That’s, uh, that’s alright, Sigma. I know everyone’s been busy lately,” Wash says, rubbing at the back of his neck, as if that might soothe the nerves spreading from his implants. “And I haven’t exactly made myself easy to find since I got out of the infirmary.”

Maine draws closer, and there’s a look in his eyes that Wash doesn’t quite recognize, but he leans into the hand that moves to his jaw. The touch is almost tentative, Maine’s thumb gentle as it finds the scar running through the corner of Wash’s lips. It’s familiar, but more hesitant than he remembers. He almost opens his mouth to ask and Maine’s eyes flick to Sigma.

“He’s missed you, Agent Washington. He wants to show you--”

“Oh, uh.” Wash’s face goes red, cheeks burning. He’s always been pretty sure that part of the reason he and Maine ever got anywhere was that they didn’t have to talk about it. “That’s um, I missed him--I missed you too, Maine.”

It’s hard not to look at Sigma, glowing like a flickering fire, but Wash forces his eyes away, looking at Maine… really looking at him. There’s a new scar here and there, fresh ones that still seem to be healing--there’s lines around his eyes, and deep, dark circles that Wash doesn’t remember. Frowning, he reaches up, cupping Maine’s face with both hands. A breath leaves him in a rush as he leans in, arms wrapping around Wash’s waist, pulling him close.

“Maine feels--”

“Uh, Sigma,” Wash cuts him off without looking over. “Can you give us a minute?”

“Of course. My apologies for intruding. I will log off until I am needed.”

The orange flickering light vanishes and Wash feels Epsilon uncoil in his skull, some of the tension slipping away. He’s almost sure he feels Maine sag against him ever so slightly, so faint he could be imagining it. Lips find his for a long moment. The hunger he remembers from before is there, but there’s something else, something he can’t quite name. Wash is breathless when he lets Maine tug him into his room.

His back hits the wall and he’s vaguely aware of the fact that he must have dropped his helmet out in the hall, but that doesn’t seem particularly important when Maine’s hands are deftly removing his armor, working their way toward skin. It seems a little fast. They should talk. But… but they can’t. They never really have. Maybe it’ll be alright, maybe they can pick up where they left off.

He catches Maine by the chin, dragging their lips back together. Strong, massive hands grip at his hips, and then one travels back up, curling around the back of his neck. Fingers move over his implants and a shudder that’s not entirely pleasant goes through him. There’s a faint buzz from Epsilon, who’s been shockingly quiet. Wash realizes too late that it’s a warning.

Maine’s motions stutter for a moment, then there’s a renewed fervor as his other hand catches one of Wash’s wrists and pins it to the wall above his head. It’s not bad until Wash gives a few tugs and can’t get free. Maine presses more firmly against him, lips insistent as fingers press at the ports at the back of his neck, almost like he’s trying to reach into them.

Wash turns his head and shifts and squirms. Maine’s always been bigger than him, than all of them, but he’s never been on the wrong side of it before. A chill goes through his veins as he tries and fails to pull his wrist free, to bend away from those pressing, prodding fingers. “Maine, stop--let go! What are you doing? G-get off!”

He pushes at Maine’s chest with his free hand, although he knows he couldn’t move him with two. Something seems to get through and Maine yanks back from him almost like he’s been burned. Wash presses himself further back against the wall, one hand going to his implants. There’s a gentle pulse from Epsilon. He’s okay. They’re okay.

“What the fuck was that?” His voice is high and tinged with panic.

Maine looks at him and then down at his own hands. He slowly backs away, until his back is pressed to the other wall, eyes still fixed on his hands. Wash just stares, the silence heavy, sucking all the air out of the room.

He should say something. Do something.

He puts his armor back on and leaves without a word. It’s not until he’s in his own quarters, curled in on himself tightly that he realizes the hand print on his hip has started to fade. For a second he panics. But there’s a gentle buzz from Epsilon.

_It’s alright, Wash, you don’t need him._

“There was something wrong with him.” Wash’s voice is soft, but it fills the space in his room as he presses his face into the too thin pillow on his bunk. “I shouldn’t have left…”

_What were you gonna do? He’s a fucking giant._

“I know, but--”

_He was gonna hurt us, Wash. Hurt you. He doesn’t deserve you if he’s gonna pull shit like that!_

Wash’s eyes go wide at the anger in Epsilon’s voice, the sudden surge of it rushing through his head. He rolls onto his side, hand coming up to his implants. “Epsilon…”

There’s a vague disgruntled noise and then a slight pause.

_It freaked me the fuck out, okay? You just walk in there and he could have done anything to you._

“He’s never done anything like that. I had no reason to think--”

_I know, I know! It’s just… Fuck Wash…_

“You were scared.”

_Fuck off._

But there’s no venom to it, so he waits another moment.

_I couldn’t do anything. I can’t… I can’t make you stronger, or throw up a shield. Fuck, I can’t even talk to most people here without almost giving you a stroke._

“Epsilon, it’s alright--”

_No! It’s not alright. I’m… I’m supposed to be your partner, Wash. You’re mine. I-I can’t protect you._

Wash makes a face and sits up. His bed is against the wall, pressed into the corner, so it’s easy to have something steady and solid at his back when he needs it. He rubs at the back of his neck as if Epsilon could actually feel it. “It’s not your job to protect me--no, listen. We’re a team, we look after each other. And… and from now on, it’ll be you and me. Just the two of us.”

That seems to help, the anxiety buzzing around his head slowly fading away.

_Just you and me. Alright, I can work with that._

* * *

It’s easy to pull away from the others when they’re all already drifting.

Carolina never seems to leave the training room. Wash sits and watches her with York one day, neither of them saying much. He wants to talk to York, to tell him what he knows--what he’s going to do. What they’re going to do.

They’ve got a plan. Save Alpha, or… whatever’s left of him.

Wash is pretty sure York would help, but it’s hard to be sure. North would help, but they can’t ask him to do that--he has South and Theta to worry about, the guy doesn’t need anything else on his plate. Even as the rest of them drift, North keeps coming back, he keeps trying.

Maybe that’s why Wash finds himself wandering to his room the day it all goes wrong.

They’ve decided, it has to be today. There’s been slips, and the Counselor is always watching now, hovering, like he knows. But he and the Director are supposed to be occupied for the rest of the day, dealing with something talked about in furious whispers and low, nervous mutters. And Alpha will be left alone. It’s their only shot.

The timer is ticking down, but Wash’s feet lead him toward North’s quarters anyway. There’s a feeling in his gut that he can’t shake, even with the tight, hopeful ball of nerves in his head. Epsilon doesn’t try to stop him though. They don’t talk about it, but he understands. His hand is raised to knock when the door to North’s room slides open.

“Oh, hey Wash. I was just about to head down to the training room. Did you need something?” North’s face is open, honest, like always. There’s not a shitty bone in his body. He’s too good for this, for them. For Wash.

“I…”

_Don’t say goodbye._

So he doesn’t. He moves forward suddenly, locking his arms tightly around North’s shoulders as he presses his face into the crook of his neck. North stumbles for a moment before steadying both of them, his arms carefully winding around Wash, one hand moving gently over his back. It’s as comforting as a hug in body armor can be. There’s only the slightest twitch as one of North’s hands comes up to run through his hair, careful not to get to close to the implants.

“So… you wanna tell me what’s been going on with you lately?” There’s no accusation in the question.

Wash lets out a shaky breath and lifts his head up, slowly meeting North’s eyes. “I… yeah, I do. I just--I can’t. Not right now. Later. There’s something I have to do.”

North looks at him for a few long moments. Wash can almost see the questions in his head. Up this close, he can see more lines than he remembers. North’s always been pale as a ghost, but it’s more pronounced now against the dark circles under his eyes--Wash is sure he’s got a pair that match. They’re all falling apart. After this, after he saves Alpha, maybe he can put them back together.

“Alright,” North says, a hint of defeat in his tone. His hand moves to cup Wash’s cheek as he leans in, pressing their foreheads together. “Whatever it is you’re doing… just be careful, alright?”

“I will.”

And maybe it’s because he’s never been quite sure what they are or where they stand, or because he doesn’t want to say goodbye, but it sure feels like that’s what he’s doing--but the next thing he knows, he’s leaning up, tilting his head and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to North’s lips.

He steps back as he pulls away, putting a few feet between them. “We’ll talk,” he says, not quite able to meet North’s eyes, “later, once I’ve taken care of things.”

Wash doesn’t wait for a response as he turns and runs.

He never makes it to the Alpha. Epsilon guides him toward where he’s being held, scanning for alarms and traps. But it’s a soft voice behind him that makes him stop short.

“Agent Washington?”

The Counselor is rounding a corner just behind him, the Director at his side. And behind them--

_Allison._

Wash’s hand hits the side of his helmet as pain surges through his head. He blinks, trying to shake it off. No, no, no, not now. That’s Tex, her name is Tex. Focus. Don’t look at the shadow.

He can’t see Tex’s face-- _she doesn’t have one_ \--but the other two don’t look exactly pleased to see him. The Director stands back, _green green green_ eyes narrowed, hands clasped behind him. So the Counselor steps forward.

“What are you doing here, Agent Washington? This area is restricted.”

“I-I was just…”

_Lie! Think of something! Anything!_

“I was looking for you, Director. Sir.” Good, that sounds good. “There was something I wanted to ask.”

The Counselor glances back at the Director, who cocks an eyebrow expectantly. “Well? Out with it, Washington. I don’t have all day.”

“It was just…” Wash’s mind goes blank. What could he possibly want to ask? There’s nothing he wants from that man--that monster. They’re all staring. He takes a step back, shaking his head. “You know what, it wasn’t that important. I’ll come ask later.”

He hears footsteps down the hall behind him and alarms go off in his head. They’re all still watching him. Tex’s head tips to one side, almost like she’s curious.

The Director glares, taking a few slow steps closer. “You’re behaving very peculiarly, Agent Washington. It isn’t like you to wander out of bounds.”

“I-I didn’t mean to…” Wash tries to take another step back, but there’s a wall in his way. Epsilon is cursing up a storm inside of his head. They need to run.

“We have noticed some major changes in your behavior,” the Counselor says, calm and even as ever, but there’s something in his eyes that turns Wash’s veins to ice. “Ever since you were implanted with the Epsilon AI, you’ve been different… it’s as though, you aren’t quite yourself anymore.”

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

“What are you talking about? I’m still me--I don’t feel like I’ve changed.” But he has and it’s written across every part of him, and they’re all going to see. He flinches and jolts as Epsilon sparks in his head.

“We’re worried about you, Agent Washington,” the Counselor continues like he never said a thing. “We think it might be best if you had Epsilon removed.”

It’s like a hole’s just been shot straight through him. His hand flies to the back of his neck as he presses himself more firmly against the wall. “W-what? No. I don’t need to--you can’t--”

_Wash…_

Epsilon’s terrified voice rings through his head. They have to get out, they have to go. More footsteps are coming, blocking all the escape routes. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

_They can’t take me._

Wash clutches at his head, the wall is cracking, pain shooting down his spine. There’s more footsteps coming faster. Tex is stepping around the Director.

“What did you just say?”

_I won’t--I won’t go, you fuckers. You won’t take me._

The voice in his head is spilling out, using his own lips, words coming out that aren’t his, but he can’t make it stop. Sharp, jolting electricity is running through him, down his fingers, through his chest. It’s all burning and the wall is tumbling down.

“Ep--Epsilon, please--”

His head jerks to the side like he’s been struck, but there’s no one near him, his limbs seize up, frozen, trembling. He can’t move, he can’t breathe, they’re coming closer. Epsilon speaks using his mouth and a voice that doesn’t belong there.

_You can pull me when I’m dead, you sick son of a bitch._

And Epsilon tears them both apart.

* * *

The world is made of pain and memories. It’s swirling around around him when he comes to. Someone’s holding his hand and he must have fallen asleep with his glasses on because he can see the face beside him.

Blonde hair. Kind eyes, a gentle hand smoothing back hair that’s grown too long from his forehead. North, some distant bit of his brain supplies.

“Hey there, buddy. How’re you feeling?”

He considers this for a moment. “Fucked up.”

North laughs, but it sounds a little hollow. He doesn’t like that. “Well, I guess that’s fair.” There’s something sad in his eyes. “They’ve really put you through the ringer, Wash.”

He blinks, brow furrowing. “Did they? I… I don’t remember.”

There’s a sigh and North’s hand gently smooths the lines in his brow. It feels nice, better than the still throbbing, achy mess inside his head. “That’s alright. It might be better that way. They… they took Epsilon, Wash. He’s gone.”

“Oh.” He frowns. That means something… or it should. But there’s too many broken bits. The sky is open and bleeding in his head.

“Hey?” he says, after a moment. North leans a little closer, head tipped to one side.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Who’s Wash?”

North looks like he’s just been gutted and he wants to take it back.

They don’t get to talk for much longer before alarms sound and men in white shoo North away. He promises he’ll come back with a kiss to the forehead.

When North comes back, the world’s on fire again, and he is too. They both are.

He’s not much help as North pulls him up and drags him from the dark halls and red lights into a world that’s so cold it burns. They don’t make it far before North’s legs give out and they both lie in the snow. Voices approach and everything fades as men in white and gray carry them away.


	2. They'll Tell You I'm Insane

It takes years to put his head back together. 

The marks help. He can’t find Allison’s, or his daughter’s, but there’s others and he recognizes them. York is on his hand, North is on his back, and Maine is still there, but slowly fading from his hip. The others, he doesn’t know, but he likes to imagine them. 

He thinks the maroon one might belong to a musician. The fingers are long, slender, an artist’s. He closes his eyes and pictures a face with a long nose and almond eyes. 

The pink one must be young. It’s dainty, smaller than any of the others. They must be pretty pampered to have such delicate hands. He pictures soft, gray eyes and long, curly hair. 

Though he can only see it in a mirror, the blue one gives him pause. It’s massive, almost bigger than Maine’s. But the fingers are wide, the palms smooth. They must be tall, he thinks, maybe an athlete with a busted nose and a big smile. 

He likes to picture them all smiling, happy, wherever they are.

His imagined people keep him going as he remembers his name, tries to sort through what’s his, what isn’t. Nightmares shake things loose again and again. Wash is alone as he sifts through the mess now. Resentment forms a dark cloud under the broken sky. 

They did this to him. To Epsilon. To Alpha. And he’s going to make them pay. 

He keeps his head down, plays the good soldier. The rest are gone. They’ve all left the project. Left him. 

Wash knows York is gone before the recovery beacon goes off. It feels like his hand’s been chopped off as the light golden tan turns into a mottled mess, almost like a burn. He takes the healing unit and makes a promise. They did this to York too. 

When North’s mark burns, it drives the air from his lungs and forces him to his knees, which must make it that much easier for South to put a bullet in his back. Maine’s hasn’t burned away, so when they meet again, Wash tries. He reaches out and gets a knife in the gut and another slashing across his face. 

The doctors never stop questioning him, prying into his mind, trying to figure out just how much is in there. He keeps them out where he can, but there’s some buttons they can still push. Did he know what was happening to Maine? Had York ever told him about wanting to leave? Did Carolina ever express difficulties with her AI? Had he ever known the twins to fight?

Could he have stopped it? Could he have saved them? 

He answers flatly, but the questions float around in his head. So he stops touching people. With his armor on, no one can make contact, no one else can end up with his deep gray handprint slapped on them. It’s better that way. If he never looks at the marks on his own skin, he can pretend they aren’t there. 

They’ll all be better off. 

* * *

Alpha isn’t quite what he expects. Neither are the sim troopers. They’re loud and brash and idiotic. Wash can’t understand how they made it this far. He’s read the files, seen all they’ve done. These people worked with Tex for years. They killed Wyoming, and apparently Florida too. 

He just can’t figure out how in the hell they’re not all long dead. 

They take Epsilon and run. Wash is years too late for Alpha, but together they at least manage to destroy anything the Director could use to make it worse. It’s strange, having Alpha in his head where Epsilon should be, filling places he hadn’t realized were empty. But then he’s gone, taking every other piece with him. The silence in Wash’s head is almost deafening. He lets it swallow him whole. 

Prison is cold and quiet. He’s left alone most days, locked away in the dark. The last big mission was never meant to make him a hero. This is probably what he deserves, to be thrown away and forgotten. One of these days, someone’s going to decide he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Wash can’t tell if he’s dreading it or looking forward to it. Maybe a little of both. 

And then he gets a call. 

The sim troopers are still out there. Epsilon is still out there. And Wash isn’t the only one that wants to catch up with them. 

Hargrove brings them in together and offers an introduction, but he brushes it off, eyes flicking over familiar armor. It’s something of a relief that there’s no surge of panic or nerves--no lingering hurt either. In fact, as he looks at the Meta, there’s just nothing. Maine isn’t in there anymore, not really. But he’s not quite Meta either, though that’s the name he sticks with, it’s easier. 

They’re supposed to work together. The idea almost makes him laugh. Yeah, that’s gonna end well. He’s pretty damn sure that even if either of them knew how to trust anymore, they wouldn’t waste it on each other. Wash can still understand him, the low growls and violent gestures easy enough to make out. 

It’s a tactical strike. Meta moves first, pushing the sim troopers into a panicked frenzy. There’s only three of them, two he doesn’t even recognize. The others have to be around somewhere. Still, they only need one to tell them where Epsilon is. So he shoots the one in brown armor through the head. 

Wash aims his gun at the one in maroon. Simmons. He remembers the name, that voice. His gun moves to the pink one and he pulls the trigger again. There’s a strange sort of pain in his knee, but he doesn’t let his thoughts dwell there. Nothing is going to slow him down. 

* * *

Doc is an annoyance. But, well… Wash can’t just leave him. He knows the Reds and Blues, and he’s the only lead they’ve got. And, alright, maybe he’s a little too pathetic to just abandon in the desert. He’s not entirely useless either. 

“Hold still, Washington, just let me see it.”

Wash jerks his arm away again, pressing it tightly to his chest. One of the goddamn aliens had gotten off a lucky shot, clipping his arm just where the armor ended above his elbow, the blast tearing through the kevlar body suit and finding skin. It’s bleeding more than it should be, which isn’t great, but he doesn’t need an incompetent medic fussing over him. 

“It’s fine,” he says, pressing his back to one of the sandy temple walls, his hand clamped down on the wound. It doesn’t seem to be helping much. 

Doc huffs, and he can practically picture the man rolling his eyes under his helmet. “I’m pretty sure bleeding all over the place doesn’t count as fine. I can patch it up in two seconds. I know my way around a bullet wound.”

“This wasn’t a bullet, it was a plasma round.”

“Oh.” That seems to stump him for a second. “Still, I can probably at least make it sort of better.”

“What a ringing endorsement.”

“Come on, Wash. Just let me look at it.”

Doc doesn’t reach for him again, his palms wide and open, trying to look unthreatening. It works. Doc is shorter, even in his armor, his voice is soft and consoling in a way that screams ‘practiced bedside manner’. Wash glances down at his arm, at the blood still drip drip dripping onto the sand. If he doesn’t get it fixed, he’ll just slow them down, or Meta will leave him for dead… or worse. 

He sighs and starts stripping the armor off his arm as he sinks down against the wall. His glove hits the sand as he rolls up the kevlar undersuit. There’s another layer of fabric under that, a thin, skin tight shirt that’s not plastered to his skin with blood. The desert has been hell for his compulsive need for layers. Thank god the armor comes with cooling fans. 

It’s not comfortable, but he gets the kevlar shoved up to his shoulder and the shirt he just takes a knife to, ripping a hole large enough for Doc to get at the injury. He doesn’t look at the medic as he offers his arm. “Fine, but make it quick. We need to get moving.”

Doc crouches next to him. He hums as he looks at the injury. “It’s not too bad, should be an easy patch job. Let me see here. I’m gonna need you to hold still.”

Wash rolls his eyes and is about to make some comment when Doc’s hand curls around his bicep and sends a jolt through him, his hair standing on end under his helmet. It takes all his self control not to jerk his arm away. He takes a steadying breath and glances at Doc, safe behind his visor. If the medic noticed anything, he doesn’t say, his attention focused on cleaning the wound. 

The purple handprint is still hidden beneath the thin layer of fabric. He’s pictured a dozen different faces that might fit the slightly crooked fingers and smooth, barely there lines crisscrossing the palm. And he still doesn’t know if any of them are right. He opens his mouth and shuts it. No… no it’s better if he doesn’t know.

He forces his eyes away, clenching both hands into tight fists. Has he touched Doc? He can’t remember. Probably not. The idiot definitely would’ve said something. Doc seems like the type would would get all sappy and gush about soulmates. Or maybe he’s not. Fuck, Wash barely knows him. 

And that’s for the best. Guilt makes his gut churn. Doc’s his prisoner. They’ve dragged him around for miles, literally when he was still stuck in that stupid wall. Doc wouldn’t want--shouldn’t want anything to do with him. 

It’s better for both of them if Wash just keeps his hands to himself. 

If he puts himself between Meta and Doc, or offers Doc half his rations, or yells at Doc to stay out of the sun a little more often, well… that’s no one’s business. And it doesn’t change a thing. 

* * *

It’s not exactly a choice. 

When Meta straps the memory unit to his back and turns toward them, there’s no switch that’s flipped or box that gets checked. Wash just lets his eyes drift to Epsilon and then he’s moving, catching Meta around the shoulders, trying to slow him down. If Doc and Epsilon can get away maybe… maybe they can fix this. And fuck, if Meta kills him, at least he’s not going back to prison. 

And then the sim troopers crash a pelican into Meta and he wonders if this is what hope feels like. 

Epsilon is remembering, his friends searching for ways to rescue Tex. Because he’s managed to move on, to carve out a place for himself with these people. There’s a lump in Wash’s throat that he forces himself to swallow. He doesn’t want to know if Epsilon remembers him, remembers whatever they were… what he did. But there’s not exactly time for questions when Meta rises out of the snow and that fluttering hint of hope curls in on itself and dies. 

He doesn’t remember Maine being this fast. The brute shot’s blade catches his side, and a blast from it sends him flying, the air driven from his lungs as he lays gasping in the snow. There’s blood running from… fuck, from a lot of places and he’s almost certain at least a few ribs are broken and his arm definitely isn’t meant to be hanging off his shoulder like that. His legs shake even as he pushes himself up on one knee. 

The one in red armor--Sarge rushes over. Wash shakes his head. There’s a hacking cough and blood splatters on the inside of his helmet. Fuck this, he’s done. He hands the hook over to Sarge and then just does his best to get out of the way before collapsing in the snow. The cold is familiar. It would be so easy to just lie there, to sleep. And why shouldn’t he?

Wash knows, deep down, he was never supposed to make it this far. The worst Freelancer has no right outliving all the rest. Maybe it’s time to see them again. 

His eyes slip shut. 

“Holy shit, dude got fucked up.” 

“No kidding, is he even breathing?”

“I can’t tell. Hang on.”

The voices are familiar, two dark shapes hovering over him. One moves closer, kneeling in the snow by his head. Hands reach for his helmet. With a weak groan, he turns his head away, hand coming up to try to stop the blow that has to be coming. But it doesn’t. 

“Shit, he’s still awake. Someone get Doc.”

“On it,” says a gruff, distinctive voice. Sarge again. The other two… one’s harder to place, but the second has to be the orange guy, the one he demoted. Shit, what was his name. 

“Grif.” He chokes out the name through a mouthful of blood. 

“Fuck, Grif, he wants you… I think.”

“Gay. I mean, shit.” The other one comes closer, dropping down at his side. Wash blinks, trying to clear the static from his vision. That’s definitely orange armor. And teal… or aqua. The sim troopers are still there? Huh. So Meta didn’t eat them. That’s… that’s good. 

A hand goes to his shoulder and gives him a gentle shake. He blinks up at Grif. “Wash, hey, stop dying. Doc’s on his way over, alright? So just cut that shit out.”

“Dude, Doc’s just gonna kill him faster.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tucker. He doesn’t need to know that.”

Tucker, right, that’s the green one’s name. Shit--no he’s aqua… or maybe turquoise. It would be easier to tell if the world would stop swirling and spinning whenever he opens his eyes.

“Oh boy, he’s looking rough.” And there’s Doc. 

“Can you do anything for him?”

“Well, I can definitely try. Let’s get him out of the snow. Can you two carry him over to the base?”

Grif groans above him. “Can’t we make Simmons do it?”

“Grif c’mon, be a dick later, he’s gonna bleed out.”

“Okay, okay, fine.”

Pain shoots through him and he makes an embarrassing, blood coated noise as his arms are pulled around two pairs of shoulders and he’s lifted up and out of the snow. He can’t stand on his own, his feet slipping and sliding on the snow, but the two carrying him seem to manage. Wash lets his head loll forward and coughs again, with a sick, wet rattling sound. That’s probably a punctured lung. Fuck. 

“Doc,” he rasps out, voice thick. “I’m not gonna--”

The guy to his left shushes him. “Shut up, asshole, you’re gonna be fine. Doc, where the fuck do you want him?”

“Just, I don’t know, wherever the floor looks cleanest?”

Oh good. Wash laughs, or he tries to. It’s a little too bloody to sound right. 

His feet leave the uneven, lumpy snow, toes dragging across a flat, solid floor. Eventually the people carrying him must find a spot that looks relatively clean as they set him down. They’re more gentle than he expects, one cradling the back of his helmet so his head doesn’t smack against the floor. Judging by the vague blurry figures over him, the other two stay close as a purple smudge joins them. 

“Do either of you two have any medical training?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“I gave Sarge CPR for a bullet wound.”

“Alright, maybe go send someone else in here. Tucker, I’m gonna need you to assist.”

“Oh fuck me.” But Tucker doesn’t have any other protests. Grif leaves and the maroon one joins them. Simmons. That’s his name. Wash should remember that. 

“Get his helmet off, I need to be able to see if he stops breathing.”

Wash is pretty sure there’s other ways to check for that, but hands go to his helmet. He reaches up to force them away, but someone grabs his hands. 

“Dude, calm down, we’re trying to help.”

His helmet comes off and someone lifts up his head and sets him on an armored lap. He blinks blearily up at aqua and maroon helmets. Doc is still close, he can hear him directing things. Someone else is there too, a gruff, familiar voice drifting to his ears. Sarge. That’s probably not great. 

“--need you to keep him occupied,” Doc is saying to the two still clustered near his head. “He’s probably gonna pass out, but in case he doesn’t, just keep him still.”

“How the fuck do you expect us to do that?”

“He’s pretty messed up, it shouldn’t be hard.”

Wash can feel himself fading, the world going gray at the edges. “Doc,” he gasps out, feeling blood splatter against his lips with the word. 

“Uh, dude.”

The purple helmet comes into view again. “Hey Wash. You just try and lay still, alright? I’m gonna get you fixed up.”

Wash faintly shakes his head and reaches for him. He finds one of Doc’s arms, and grabs him by the wrist. It’s stupid, he’s not even sure why he does it, but Wash drags Doc’s hand to his arm. 

“Wash, what are you--oh.” 

Doc’s hands are covered in blood, probably Wash’s, and he leaves quite the handprint behind on his armor. For a moment, the world is quiet. Then Doc’s hand gently brushes the hair back from his face. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise. Just hold on a little longer, alright?”

Wash doesn’t believe him, but he manages a nod. Doc leaves his field of view and he starts to drift until there’s sharp pain in his chest. He curses and chokes and jerks on impulse. 

“Hold him still!”

“Aw fuck.” The aqua one lurches forward, hands gripping his shoulders tightly. Simmons seems lost and a little panicked, his gloved hands awkwardly hovering, before going to his head, patting his hair. 

There’s hands  _ in _ his chest and he can’t breathe and the world swims and why didn’t they just leave him in the fucking snow? 

Looking up, he finds the aqua helmet. It’s not quite right, but his head is getting fuzzier by the second and the edges of his vision are going. He reaches up, fingers brushing the edge of the visor. “C-Carolina. I-I’m sorry. I… I should’ve looked f-for you.”

“The hell is he talking about?” asks a distant voice he knows he knows. 

“Shut up,” hisses Carolina in a voice that’s definitely not hers. “Uh, it’s cool Wash. Don’t worry about it, man. I’m all good. You just stop fucking squirming, Jesus Christ.”

Wash feels himself nod, eyes falling shut. “O-okay boss.”

There’s a hand moving over his hair in a way that’s probably supposed to be comforting. He lets himself rest against his armor covered pillow as darkness takes him. 

* * *

They’re all still there when he wakes up. 

The first thing he’s aware of is pain, and that someone’s put an itchy, damp smelling blanket over him. Shifting a little, he finds that someone still has his head on their lap. His helmet’s still off judging by the fingers running through his hair. Slowly, he opens his eyes to find a spectacled face staring down at him. 

“Oh hey, you’re alive.” 

He knows that voice. His brow furrows. “Doc?”

Wash has pictured a dozen different faces, but actually seeing one is something new. Doc’s a little younger than expected, his skin a rich, warm brown, his eyes are a little tired, but there’s a softness there that Wash doesn’t know what to do with. 

“It was kinda touch and go there for a while. Good thing the Reds brought a bunch of that old Freelancer stuff. We stuck a healing unit in your armor… seems like it’s working so far.” 

Brow furrowing, Wash looks down at himself, pushing the blanket off. His armor’s back on, plenty of bloody marks and stains all over it. There’s still a lot of pain, but nothing feels particularly fatal at the moment.

“So… you really thought you were dying, didn’t you?”

His eyes flick back to Doc, expression curious. 

“I just--well, I assume you wouldn’t have told me that we’re… y’know, soulmates if you didn’t. Because you clearly already knew and you never mentioned it.” It’s weird how it doesn’t sound like Doc’s accusing him of anything. 

But it’s still a lot harder to look at him now. Wash shrugs and fights back a wince when pain shoots up his shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d want to know. I was sort of keeping you prisoner for a while. Not exactly the best time to share that.”

“I guess that makes sense. I do appreciate you telling me, by the way. With all this armor on all the time, it’s a little hard to figure that out,” Doc says, and for some reason, when Wash chances a look at his face, he’s smiling. 

Oh right. Some people actually look forward to that. Huh. Somewhere in his head he remembers that feeling… but it might not even be his. Feelings are harder to sort out than places and people. 

Wash frowns, teeth finding the inside of his lip. “Why are you happy about this? I killed two of your friends. I tried to kill the rest of them. Why… why did you save me?”

Doc rolls his eyes and scoffs. “That’s my job, Wash. Well, part of it. And I mean if I’m not gonna be friends with people who’ve tried to kill my other friends, I’ve gotta stop talking to Caboose. And Sarge too, probably. Actually, that might not be so bad. He still thinks I’m a Blue half the time.”

Wash has no idea how to respond to any of that. But Doc keeps talking, so he doesn’t have to. 

“Do you know what color yours would be?”

“My what?”

“Your handprint, Wash. I’ve probably got it on me somewhere.”

Oh. Right. That. His hands curl into fists and he tucks them tightly to his sides. Shifting, he pushes himself up and away from Doc, sucking in a sharp gasp of pain as his ribs protest. Doc’s hands go to his shoulders, trying to pull him back down. “Are you trying to open your stitches? Wash, you have to take it easy.” 

He lets out a shaky breath and goes back to his spot on the floor. “I know.”

Doc blinks down at him, slight frown on his face. “Did I say something wrong?”

Wash winces and hesitates before shaking his head. His eyes find the wall beside them. “You don’t want that,” he says, after a few long moments of silence. 

“But I really do.”

“No, you don’t,” Wash says, more firmly this time. “Trust me, nothing good will come of you having my handprint on you.”

“Gosh, you’re dramatic. You’d think a near death experience might make you look on the bright side a little more.”

Wash can’t stop himself from looking back up at Doc incredulously. “What?”

“Well, I mean, you survived--bright side!”

Wash just stares at him. Doc’s bright smile dims a little as he runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat. “Look, Wash, I’m not gonna make you tell me, but… I’m sorry, you don’t get to decide whether people want you to be their soulmate not.”

Brow furrowing, Wash’s mouth opens and shuts again. It makes sense, but it shouldn’t. Because Doc shouldn’t want him around. Finding out that they’re connected because destiny says so doesn’t make the last few weeks just disappear. But he doesn’t get a chance to argue before footsteps approach. 

“Agent Washington, you’re alive!” That voice he definitely knows. 

Glancing over, Wash finds Caboose and Tucker standing in the doorway, the former carrying Epsilon’s body over his shoulder. For some reason that makes his gut turn and he winces as Caboose lets the limp form drop to the floor with a heavy clang. 

“Caboose, what the fuck? I just told you to stop throwing that around,” Tucker snaps, but Caboose isn’t listening. He’s already across the room and kneeling at Wash’s side. 

“I am so glad to see you--the terrible doctor said that all of your insides wanted to be outside.”

“Sitting right here, Caboose.”

But Caboose doesn’t pay Doc any mind as he shifts to sit cross legged, almost bouncing on the spot. “I cannot wait for you to see our new bases. You have been there before, but they are so much better now. Oh! And you can stay in my room! We’re gonna have so much fun. We can stay up late and tell scary stories and--”

“What? Caboose, slow down. What are you talking about?” It doesn’t feel like he was out for that long, but Wash is pretty sure he missed something here.

Caboose tips his helmeted head to one side. “You’re coming home with us, Wash.”

“It’s really better not to argue with him,” Tucker says, sounding resigned as he crosses the floor to stand behind Caboose. From the way he crosses his arms over his chest, it seems like at least someone there hasn’t forgotten the last several months. “But thanks to you, we’re down a leader, so you’ve gotta take one for the team.”

“Yes, now you get to be Church!”

“Uh…” Wash looks between both of them, and then up at Doc. 

Tucker’s probably rolling his eyes judging by that huff. “He means, you’ve gotta wear his armor. Apparently we triggered something here and the UNSC assholes are on the way, so you’ve gotta change fast too. The Reds are outside watching for them, but I dunno how long we’ve got. So get off your ass and get naked.”

“Hey chicka bum bum.”

“Caboose! What did I tell you?”

“To never do the thing ever again forever.”

There’s not really room to protest, so Wash doesn’t. He’s starting to think that he’s still unconscious and that he’s going to wake up any time now, face down in the snow. But for now, he’ll allow the fever dream. 

Between the three of them, they get him to his feet. Caboose stands at his back, bracing him as Tucker and Doc switch gray armor for cobalt blue. He pulls the gloves on quickly, flexing his fingers, trying to get a feel for his new second skin. Tucker sticks the gray and yellow armor onto the unmoving husk as Caboose hauls him away, a can of yellow spray paint in his hand. 

“So we still know that you are you,” Caboose says confidently. Wash doesn’t see the point in arguing, so he allows it and then marvels at the fact that Caboose actually does a decent job. 

“Thank you, Caboose. I… you didn’t have to do all this,” he says, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. 

“No, no, we did,” Caboose says, sounding almost thoughtful. “We have to keep the teams even, and Tucker said I could keep you. And I know he is sad about Church, but he won’t say so because he is very stupid. And you are sad about him too--so we can all be sad together and then we will be happy!”

Wash blinks at him. “I…”

Caboose moves suddenly and Wash flinches on impulse, expecting a blow, but his arms are crushed against his chest as Caboose sweeps him into a hug that lifts him up off his feet. There’s a sharp stab of pain from his ribs that has him gasping. It’s not an attack, but he feels the panic welling up and he can’t move and he doesn’t want to hurt Caboose, but his ribs are creaking in a way he doesn’t like and--

“Caboose, put him down before you break him.” Tucker’s voice rings out and saves him. 

Air rushes back to his lungs as his feet find the ground again. Caboose steps back as he nearly doubles over wheezing. “Agent Washington? Are your insides outside again?” Caboose sounds concerned, guilt lacing his voice. “Tucker did it.”

“Oh fuck off.” Tucker strides over, looking between the pair of them. “Make yourself useful and go stick Church’s body out in the snow.”

“Tucker, this is not the time to make Church the friendly snowman.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

* * *

Agent Washington is labeled KIA. Wash is free to do what he wants, to go anywhere in the galaxy.

He stays with the sim troopers. 

They don’t do much except argue with each other. It’s actually kind of a nice change of pace. Wash isn’t quite sure where he fits. It takes a week for him not to wince when Caboose calls him Church, but he adjusts. That’s the least he can do after what they’ve done for him. They’ve given him back his life, given him a new home, a team, a place to belong. 

It’s a little overwhelming honestly. 

He keeps busy, scouting around the perimeter of both bases, making sure there’s no way for anyone to be watching them. Wash isn’t entirely sure why they keep fighting with the Reds, not that he would really call yelling back and forth at one another fighting, but he doesn’t question it. Old habits die hard apparently. It’s something to do at least. 

Sharing a living space with people again takes some getting used to. He had managed to talk Caboose out of sharing a room with him, insisting that they couldn’t have very good ‘best friend time’ while they were sleeping. Tucker seemed content to keep to himself. There’s still something in his eyes that’s a little distant when he looks at Wash. That’s fair, it’s actually a little easier to deal with than the blind trust Caboose showers him with. 

The first time he wakes up from a nightmare, covered in a cold sweat, it’s a little surprising, although he’s not quite sure why. His small room is dark and cool, his bed pressed to the corner. He leans against the solid, metal wall as he catches his breath. Nightmares are nothing new, this one is just the same old trauma replaying itself in his head. 

Wash gets up and heads into the small shared bathroom, splashing a little cold water on his face. He looks at himself in the mirror. His face is older than he remembers and there’s hints of gray in his hair. There’s stubble on his chin he should take care of in the morning. The bags under his eyes are still there, they always are. He’s pretty sure that no amount of sleep is getting rid of them. 

A cool breeze drifts in through the door he didn’t bother closing. He follows it out to stand atop the base, leaning against the railing. Eyes closed, Wash lets the cool air rush over him. It’s then that he realizes what’s so strange. He’s not in his armor, he hadn’t even thought about it. He hadn’t checked the bathroom door or scanned for enemies before heading outside. The nightmare was a surprise because he hasn’t had one in weeks.

For the first time in years, Wash feels safe. 

He doesn’t even jolt when heavy footsteps approach. It’s easy to hear Caboose coming from halfway across the base. It’s not until the steps stop next to him that he glances over. “Hello, Caboose.”

“Good morning, Agent Washington.” Out of armor, Caboose is still giant. Wash isn’t exactly short at a little over six feet tall, but Caboose is still about a head taller, and almost twice as broad across the shoulders. He’s seen Caboose lift a warthog over his head and throw it halfway to Red Base. But standing next to him, armor left behind, he still doesn’t feel that familiar thrum of nerves. 

“It’s not quite morning yet.”

“Oh, I know. But you were awake, so I did not want to confuse you and say goodnight.”

Wash ducks his head, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his lips. “Right, of course.”

He casts a sideways glance at Caboose, who’s idly looking over their little valley, humming to himself. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Caboose blinks, looking at him with those big, brown eyes. “No. See I was awake because sometimes, back in Blood Gulch, Church would get up for midnight snacks. So I would always wake up in case he wanted a snack, so we could eat together even though it wasn’t snack time. And he’s not here right now, but… sometimes I miss snack time. I miss Church.”

Something in Wash’s chest twists painfully. His fingers twitch, for a moment he nearly reaches out, but he knows better. “I know you do, buddy.”

Nodding to himself, Caboose grips the railing and leans back, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, but he will be back someday. I still have our best friend mark, so I know I will see him again, and then we will have snack time and nap time and everything will be good forever.”

Caboose pauses and looks over at him, head tipped to one side. “Do you miss him too?”

Wash’s brow furrows. “I… I don’t know. I didn’t know him the way you did.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got a mark for him too.”

His hand flies to the back of his neck instinctively. “I-I know. It’s complicated, Caboose.”

“Yeah, they are,” Caboose says, nodding sagely. “See sometimes, you get one and it hurts real, real bad. And other times you have two marks that are the same, only not the same. Or you have ones that don’t make sense, like this one for Tucker,” he says, tugging up his shirt, revealing an aqua handprint on his stomach. “Yeah, I don’t like that one very much. It itches.”

“Oh.” Wash isn’t sure what to do with that. But Caboose doesn’t seem to mind, letting his shirt fall back down as he turns to look over the valley again. 

Caboose’s hand lands on his back and Wash almost jumps out of his skin. He manages not to move after the initial jolt, his hands gripping the railing tight. It’s been a while since he’s thought about his marks, but… he really should have seen this coming. Giant blue handprint, giant blue teammate. It only makes sense. 

But he shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as he glances at Caboose again. It seems like he hasn’t noticed. Good. Wash isn’t letting another slip happen like it did with Doc. What Caboose doesn’t know won’t hurt him. 

Wash takes a breath and manages to get the corner of his mouth to turn up. “You want to go get a snack, Caboose?”

“I would like that very much. Let’s not invite Tucker.”

They head back into the base. There’s not a whole lot that Wash would consider good snack food, but he digs out a few boxes of sugary cereal that he’s been saving. They talk loud enough to wake Tucker, who mutters darkly at both of them, but plops down next to them in the kitchen, snagging a box of cereal for himself. It’s not where Wash pictured himself in a million years, but it’s comfortable and safe. 

He should have known then that it wouldn’t last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to stick to Saturday updates for this fic. Chapter lengths are probably going to vary a bit cause I'm terrible at planning out chapter breaks. Thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos or comments so far, it means so much!


	3. Comes Back to Me Burning Red

Carolina shows up again and Wash isn’t sure who to be. 

It’s almost surprising how easy it is to fall into his old routine, following orders, snapping to attention. The sim troopers look at him and see a traitor and he can’t blame them. He never asked to be the new leader of Blue Team, he had just fallen into the role. Wash is pretty sure he was making a mess of it, but now it’s all he can do to try to keep the guys from taking a warthog in the night to get as far from Carolina as possible. 

If she would just give them an inch of slack. But she can’t. And there’s a million reasons why in his head. 

“This is such bullshit!” 

Wash lets out a breath as he rubs at his temple. It’s not the first time Tucker has said as much, and he can’t exactly disagree. They had all been willing to go along with Carolina for one reason only: Epsilon. But they’re impatient, they get bored and discouraged, especially when they’re told to stay back and wait while Carolina rushes ahead. 

She’s taken Caboose and the Reds with her to scout for supplies, leaving Tucker and Wash back to hold down their temporary base. Wash because he had managed to take a bullet to the shoulder knocking Caboose out of the way when they had taken the little encampment earlier, and Tucker because, well… Carolina had made no secret just what she thought of his choice of pick up lines. 

Half out of armor, Wash feels uncomfortable and exposed leaning against one of the three walls that stands in the wreck of a house where they’ve decided to camp for the night. He watches as Tucker paces, glaring into the distance, helmet abandoned on the ground at his feet. Wash should tell him to put it back on, but he’s pretty sure that won’t end well. The sim troopers all have a habit of walking around without armor more often than Wash would like. Back in Valhalla, he hadn’t thought much about it, but here, they’re out in the open and there’s something a little distracting about the way Tucker looks, dark skin illuminated by a slow setting sun, head wreathed in a soft golden glow. Something he definitely doesn’t need to think about. At all. 

“They’ll be back soon,” he says instead. 

Tucker just turns that glare toward him. “Great, Queen Bitch will be back soon to threaten us more and order us around, just what I wanted.”

Wash sighs and tips his head back against the wall. “I know she’s being hard on you…” He pauses, glancing at Tucker expectantly. 

“Bow chicka bow wow.” Tucker’s shoulders are slumped and he’s never heard the irritating phrase sound more defeated. 

“But she’s been through a lot. She’s not used to having a team that’s…”

“Useless? A bunch of lazy fuck ups? Not actually her goddamn team?” Tucker kicks a rock and sends it flying. He glares at Wash again. “Why the hell do you keep taking her side? You’ve turned into a real Simmons since she got here.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “Simmons?”

“A real fucking kiss ass, duh.” Tucker flicks his dreads back over his shoulder as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You trying to get in her pants or something?”

“What? No! God no,” Wash says, shaking his head, eyes wide. “It’s not like that, she’s... “

Carolina’s attractive, he can’t exactly deny that, but he’s never looked at her like that. He couldn’t, not when he saw the way she and York had been. And then there were the things in his head that weren’t his. If he closed his eyes, he could watch Carolina grow up, hear her laugh, see her fill her room with trophies. And watch her fall apart as he pulled at her strings and pushed her till she broke.

No. Not him. 

“Hey, you alright?”

Wash blinks himself back to reality. Tucker’s right in front of him, faint hint of concern on his face. His hands are pressed tight to his head, pain flickering behind his eyes. He shakes his head, trying to will it away. 

“Yeah, just… just a headache.”

Tucker’s still frowning. “You’ve been getting a lot of those lately.”

He’s not wrong. When Carolina first popped up again, Wash had taken one look at her and the next thing he knew, he was laid out on the floor, a blinding pain in his head, Caboose fussing over him as Tucker shoved a gun in Carolina’s face. Honestly, he’s not quite sure how they all managed to survive that one. It sure as hell had felt like he was going to die. 

This isn’t nearly as bad, but he can’t get the pain to stop or shove all the memories back. He presses himself back against the wall and tries to focus on his breathing. There’s another jolt that has him smacking one hand into the rough bricks, the other almost clawing at his hair as he jerks and squirms, like he could pull away from his own mind. 

“Dude, are you having a fucking stroke?” There’s a trace of panic in Tucker’s voice. 

Wash opens his mouth to tell him he’s fine, to insist that it’ll pass, it always does. But then Tucker’s hand presses to his chest  to steady him and knocks the air out of his lungs. He tries to pass off the convulsion as another jolt of pain, which… isn’t really much of a stretch as it still feels like the memories are trying to claw their way out of his skull. 

“Wash--fuck, just look at me for a sec.” Tucker’s other hand is on his chin, turning his face. Wash’s hands twitch, wanting to push him away. But he can’t. Can’t touch him. So he forces his eyes open. 

Tucker’s closer than before, peering into his face, brow furrowed, eyes wide. “If you die on me, Carolina’s gonna be pissed. Just try to breathe. Or, fuck--uh count to ten, that’s supposed to help.”

Wash nods, swallowing thickly as he shuts his eyes again. Tucker’s hand is still right there over his heart, the warmth of it bleeding through the thin sweater. It’s one of Simmons’, maroon with a black trim, tight across his shoulders, but it had been the closest fit they could find. Because they’ve all insisted on giving him little bits of themselves and he has nothing to give back. 

He gets to ten and remembers how to breathe, but Tucker stays close. There’s still a faint throb in his head, but he’s not about to blackout. Wash’s fingers twitch, but he keeps his them pressed flat to the wall behind him. Can’t touch. Can’t press into the warmth that’s spreading through his veins, fire shooting straight through him, burning in way that’s far nicer than it should be. 

“I’m fine,” he says, voice sounding more sturdy than he expects. 

Tucker doesn’t look convinced, but he finally lets his hands fall away, crossing his arms over his chest as he takes a step back. “Didn’t look fine. Why does that keep happening? You’re not… you’d say something if you were actually dying--no, the fuck am I thinking, of course you wouldn’t.”

Wash frowns, brows knitting together as Tucker turns away sharply. “I’m not dying. It’s--it’s really just headaches.”

“Yeah, unless you Freelancers get some kind of super headaches, I’m calling bullshit, dude.”

He opens his mouth to argue and then shuts it again, slumping back against the wall. It’s not something he talks about--has ever talked about. But it’s not fair for his team not to know why he’s a liability. “It’s… you know about the AI, obviously. I had a, let’s say, difficult implantation process.”

Slowly, Tucker half turns, watching him over his shoulder, eyes still narrowed. It’s a start. “They put Epsilon in your head and you went crazy.”

“That’s not what--” Wash cuts himself off and rubs at his temple, forcing down the gut reaction, biting back sharp, defensive words. “It’s more complicated than that. Epsilon was--is the memories of Alpha and the Director, so having him in my head, it… it was like another person was shoved into my mind, which went about as well as you might expect.”

The words just keep spilling out. Wash isn’t looking at Tucker anymore. He can’t. It’s easier to stare at the mound of bags the Reds had piled on what they claimed as their side of the camp. 

“While he was in my head, he… Epsilon helped keep it all sorted out, but when they took him, I still had all the memories. It’s why I get confused sometimes. And there’s certain things--certain people that trigger these… flashes of memory. But I know they shouldn’t be there, I think that’s why it hurts, but…” He trails off. This is too much. Tucker didn’t ask for his life story. He doesn’t need to deal with this. It’s not his problem. 

“So… Carolina’s been setting off that memory shit?” Tucker’s frowning when Wash finally manages to look at him, his hands curling into fists at his sides. 

“Well,” Wash says slowly. “She’s not doing it intentionally--”

“Fuck that.” The sharpness of Tucker’s tone catches him by surprise. “As soon as she gets back, she’s gone. We’re not doing this shit.”

“What? Tucker no.”

Tucker rounds on him, eyes narrowed. “Look, Wash, I know you get off on having the shit kicked out of you, but I’m not just gonna sit on my thumb while she’s fucking with your head. So you can just take it and shove--”

“She doesn’t know,” Wash snaps, surprising himself a little. Tucker stares at him, eyebrows rising. He shifts, pressing himself further back against the wall, eyes on the ground. “I’ve never… you’re the first person I’ve told any of this to.”

And he’s still not quite sure why that is. Tucker doesn’t need to know how messed up he is. It’s stupid, it’s selfish. 

“Oh.” He’s not quite sure what that tone means. Tucker doesn’t sound angry at least. Maybe surprised? 

Wash chances a glance at him and finds Tucker looking at him, head tilted to one side. He’s not quite frowning, but he sure doesn’t look happy. It’s like he can’t quite figure out what to do with his face, a little wrinkle forming between his brows. Wash wants to smooth it away. His fingers itch and he looks at the ground. 

They aren’t quite friends. Tucker doesn’t trust him, doesn’t want him around. But… he had threatened Carolina for him, carried him out of the snow, sat up with him at the base. They’re not friends, but they’re a team. Maybe that’s enough. 

Whatever Tucker’s going to say, he doesn’t get a chance to, the Reds announcing their return with that music of theirs. Wash moves to help them unload the warthogs and tries to pretend he doesn’t feel Tucker staring into the back of his head for the rest of the night. 

* * *

They find Epsilon, but they don’t stop there. Wash isn’t sure Carolina could stop if she wanted to. She’s never known how. 

Epsilon wants nothing to do with him, and that’s just fucking fine by Wash. It stings a little, but he doesn’t want to think about what would happen if Epsilon jumped into his head again. He’s fairly sure it wouldn’t be pretty. But it’s one thing when Epsilon is in Tucker’s head with his team, it’s another entirely when he jumps to Carolina and they start seeing eye to eye. 

The sim troopers are exhausted and pissed, and… honestly Wash can’t blame them. Carolina expects them to follow orders blindly like they did a long time ago. And he wants to be the good soldier. It’s natural to fall in line behind her. 

But it’s not right. Not anymore. Not when she’s sending his team--his friends to bite a bullet for her revenge. 

So when she levels a gun at Tucker, he doesn’t even think before pressing one to the back of her head. The betrayal in her voice catches him by surprise. It’s even more surprising how little he cares, how ready he is to put her down if she doesn’t back the fuck off. 

When Epsilon snaps and the guys follow Tucker out, Wash doesn’t waste time before trailing along with them. Tucker’s halfway back to Blue Base, Caboose trudging after him. Wash lingers, waiting with the Reds until he sees the tail lights of Carolina’s bike disappear into the distance. 

“Good riddance.” Wash isn’t entirely surprised to find Sarge standing back against the wall, shotgun in hand. 

Letting out a breath, Wash finally lets his rifle drop to his side. He glances off the way they went, for the briefest of moments almost wishing to see the headlights coming back. No such luck. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” he says, shaking his head. “She’s always been driven, but this is… something else.”

Sarge grunts and strides up to stand alongside him. “I like a good revenge quest as much as the next guy, but I ain’t walking my men into a death trap for someone who can’t see two feet in front of ‘em. Well, maybe Grif, but only if I get to order him into the death trap myself.”

“I don’t blame you for that,” he says, meaning the first part. Not so much the Grif thing, he’s not going to touch that one. He hesitates for a minute before reaching up to tug off his helmet. “I’m sorry.”

“Gonna need you to run that one by me again, son.” He feels Sarge watching him from behind his visor as he shifts on the spot. 

“I shouldn’t have let things go this far--with Carolina and Epsilon, all their plans. I should’ve made her stop weeks ago. The way they’ve been treating you-- _ I’ve _ been treating you. I just… I’m sorry. You all deserve better than that.” It’s easier to make the apology to his feet, but he forces himself to meet Sarge’s eyes… or where he’s pretty sure the man’s eyes are. 

His words hang heavy in the air for a moment before Sarge shoulders his gun and reaches out, a firm hand landing on Wash’s shoulder, the touch nearly making him flinch. There’s armor in the way, no danger there, he can only sort of feel it, but it’s still reassuring. “Don’t put that all on you. We could’ve left anytime. Stepped in when it counted, that’s what matters.”

Wash nods slowly, not quite believing him. Sarge gives his shoulder another pat before turning away. He takes a few steps before Wash hears him stop. “We would’ve taken you with us, y’know. If we’d up and left. I’d’ve tied you to the warthog myself. You might be a dirty blue, but you’re one of us. Now get the hell back to your own base. Gotta get up bright and early for an old fashioned asskicking.”

There’s such a distinct fondness under the gruff rumble, and Wash doesn’t have a clue what to do with it. He ducks his head, nodding as he works past the lump in his throat. “Right. I’ll… I’ll do that. Goodnight, Sarge.”

Sarge mutters something behind him that he can’t quite make out, words apparently exhausted. Wash can’t blame him for that either. He takes a breath and shoves his helmet back on. His team still needs him. 

* * *

They go after Carolina and Epsilon anyway. It’s a stupid idea and Wash doesn’t quite get how they can all just forgive like that. But a small part of his brain reminds him… it’s not like this is the first time. And if they can forgive all that he did getting over being bitched out by an old friend probably isn’t too hard. 

It seems as though it’s a good thing that they do. Maybe he’s still not completely over it, or he hasn’t forgotten just how smug Carolina was when she was sitting at the top of the leaderboard, but there’s the tiniest sense of satisfaction at seeing her get her ass handed to her before the sim troopers charge in. Wash is a lot of things, and he’s never claimed not to be a little petty now and then. 

But it still feels natural, to reach down and offer a hand to get her back on her feet. 

Maybe it’s because they’re used to Tex, which is a terrifying thought in itself, but the sim troopers do alright. He gives his pistol to Carolina and takes the blows meant for Donut, because that pink armor still makes something deeply unpleasant turn in his gut. But they’re still outnumbered and even Caboose can’t keep this up forever. 

But Wash knows Epsilon, he knows the Director, so he gives that push and moments later the robots go down. Caboose follows them, dropping to lie spread out on his back. “No more punching please. I’m done with taxes, I’ll pay the rest next year.”

Grif sprawls out next to him and barely groans when Simmons sits on his stomach to wheeze. Tucker pulls off his helmet and shakes out his hair, sweat dripping from his brow. He lightly nudges Caboose with his foot before sinking down next to him. Sarge is the only one that stays standing, Donut sitting by him, leaning against his legs. 

Wash finds Carolina watching him and waves her on. This part, she and Epsilon need to do alone. She gives a faint nod and goes off to confront her father. Turning away, Wash looks over his men, trying to remember why people keep calling them the worst soldiers of all time. Because that’s not what he sees. Not anymore. 

He passes Sarge, managing not to flinch when he claps him on the shoulder, and moves to stand over Tucker and Caboose. They look about as exhausted as he feels. This is probably the time for a rousing pep talk, but he just doesn’t have it in him. So he stands vigil as Tucker reaches over Caboose to smack Grif’s arm until he produces a flask from somewhere in his armor. It moves from the Reds to Tucker, who then silently offers it to Wash. He hesitates and then removes his helmet to take a swig, wincing in anticipation. It’s… not horrible. He hands it over to Donut, that feeling of safety creeping over him again. 

* * *

Their ship home falls out of the sky and Wash knows it’s all his fault. 

He comes to under a pile of smashed up crates and sparking computers. The sparks quickly become quite a bit more, the heat threatening to boil him inside his armor. Wash scrambles and shoves his way out, gloves managing to protect his hands from the worst of it, the armor on the outside melting and fusing together. He gets free and yanks them off, leaving them smoking on the floor of the ship as he climbs unsteadily to his feet. 

The world seems to shift and sway around him and he clutches at his head, until he realizes that the floor is actually moving. Whatever’s happened, it’s not over yet, the ship still tipping this way and that with a horrible lurching motion. The filters on his helmet keep out most of the smoke as he weaves his way around broken bits of the ship and bodies that he (thankfully) doesn’t recognize. 

“Tucker,” he calls, searching for a hint of familiar armor. “Caboose! Sarge! Anyone!”

He hears voices nearby and rounds the corner as the ship lurches sharply and knocks him off his feet. The floor tips and tips the incline sending him sliding down. There’s a whirring behind him, the familiar sound of the massive fans used to keep the engines in check. Wash rolls onto his back as he slides and sees the blades. Fuck. He scrambles, trying to find anything to hold one. 

The floor is almost vertical now and he manages to roll to one side, hooking his arms over what was once a wall to another corridor. It’s not a great grip, and he can’t get purchase on the too smooth wall. If this is how it’s going to end, the universe has the shittiest sense of humor. 

“Wash!” He looks up and spots maroon and orange. There’s blood spattering both of them and Grif looks to be limping, but they scramble down the hallway just as Wash’s stupid sweaty palms start to lose any sort of traction. 

They each grab an arm and Wash feels the warmth shoot up to his shoulders as they tug him up into the hallway. The ship lurches again with a massive crunching sound, all three of them hitting what’s now the floor again. Wash gets to his feet first and looks between the two of them. “Are you alright?”

“Fucking peachy,” says Grif, from where he still sprawls on the floor. 

Simmons gets up and leans against the wall, gasping, hands pressed to a wound just under his chest plate. Wash moves on impulse to his side. “What happened?”

“Took some shrapnel to the gut. It’s--it’s not deep, but fuck it keeps bleeding.” There’s a forced calm to Simmons’ voice, but Wash can hear the strain underneath, the panic. “Have you seen Sarge? We can’t find him anywhere.”

“You two are the only ones I’ve found.” He doesn’t want to talk about all the dead crewmembers, all the bodies he’s stepped over. “C’mon, let’s find a way out of here.”

He hates not having his gloves, but he can’t worry about that now. His head is still swimming a little and he’s pretty sure there’s going to be a whole bunch of fun new burns under his armor, but he can’t stop moving. There’s a definite shake to Grif’s left leg, but Wash manages to get him up. He locks an arm around Simmons and keeps a grip on Grif’s shoulder. Between the three of them, there’s enough energy left to get them off the ship and onto the grass and rock of wherever the hell they’ve crashed. 

“Tucker! Tucker, I see them!”

“Holy fuck!”

Wash lets Grif lean against him as he looks up and finds Tucker and Caboose rushing over. Tucker’s got an arm pressed tight to his chest and Caboose must have lost his helmet somewhere along the way, the left side of his face covered in scratches and bruises, but they’re both still standing and the surge of relief Wash feels nearly punches the air out of him. 

Caboose bounces on the spot, looking over all of them, eyes wide and worried. “Did you find Church? I looked and looked, but there was only Tucker.”

Hating himself, Wash shakes his head. “I didn’t see him. I’m sorry, Caboose.”

“Is Sarge with you guys?” Simmons has hope forced in his voice, but his shoulders slump as Tucker shakes his head. It feels like a blow to the gut. 

“Tucker, help Grif,” he says, making sure Grif has someone else to lean against before pulling away. “Simmons, let me borrow your gloves. I’m going to go back and look for them.”

“I’ll come too!” Caboose is already stepping forward, eyes fixed on the ship. 

“No, no, you stay here--”

“Hey, is this where the party is?” 

Wash has never been more relieved to hear Epsilon. He spins on the spot. Carolina and Sarge trudge out of the ship together, her arm locked tight around his middle, his looped around her shoulders. They both look beat to hell, Carolina’s other arm is dangling limply at her side and Sarge isn’t putting weight on his left leg, but they’re alive and moving. Epsilon’s familiar figure floats at Carolina’s shoulder, flickering at the edges. They’re all still here. 

Caboose helps him set up a decent camp as the others work together to figure out who’s bleeding from where and how to stop it. Simmons fusses and frets over the other Reds before Grif finally pulls him down to sit next to him. There’s a strange rush of fondness there as Wash watches them from the corner of his eye before getting back to work. Tucker finally gets him to sit still when he nearly falls on his face tripping over a rock. Through Wash’s protests, Tucker yanks off his helmet and then stares. “Jesus fucking Christ, Wash.”

“What?” 

He keeps his flinch small as Tucker reaches for him, but it’s enough to make the gloved hand stop an inch from his face. Tucker frowns, but lets his hand drop away. “You’re bleeding, dumbass.”

Wash blinks and then feels for where Tucker almost touched him. His hand comes away red and wet from his temple. Huh. Well that’s the first he’s noticed that. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Now sit fucking still and let me fix it,” Tucker says, and Wash can’t figure out why he sounds so irritated. He almost insists that he can do it himself, but Tucker’s glaring and cursing under his breath as he grabs one of the first aid kits that they managed to salvage and works to get it open with one hand. 

So Wash just keeps his hands in his lap and does his best not to move an inch as Tucker cleans the wound with a surprising amount of care. At some point, he curses and yanks his glove off with his teeth and Wash fights down a shudder as careful fingers covered in calluses from his sword gently smooth a bandage into place. 

“Did you think I was gonna hit you?”

Wash blinks, brow furrowing as he finally looks up at Tucker, who’s very pointedly not looking at him, attention on packing up the medical kit. Maybe it’s the fact that he probably has a little concussion, but he’s suddenly very lost. “What?”

“You kept like flinching and twitching the whole time.”

Wincing, Wash ducks his head, trying to hide his face, shame coloring his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to.”

When he chances a glance up, Tucker’s staring at him again. “The fuck are you apologizing for?”

“I…” He doesn’t have a good answer for that, and he’s not sure what Tucker’s expecting. Wash forces out a breath. “I didn’t think you would--hit me, I mean. I’m just… I’m not used to people touching me.”

“Bow chicka bow wow.”

Wash presses a hand to his face and groans. “Y’know, for a second, I thought we were having a moment there. Glad it’s passed. Alright, I’m gonna go check on Caboose.”

He gets up and Tucker lets him go, but he keeps feeling eyes on him as he checks on the other. When he risks a look at Tucker, Wash finds him frowning like he’s thinking hard and that can’t possibly be good for him. But there’s other things to worry about, so he doesn’t let himself dwell on it. 

They’re all a little banged up. Caboose gets off the easiest with just some scrapes and bruises, although judging by what’s left of his helmet when Wash finds it, he nearly ended up much, much worse. Simmons, thankfully isn’t as bad as he looks and only needs a few stitches, but nothing’s permanently damaged there. Grif’s knee is a little messed up and Tucker’s left wrist is sprained, but those should heal up pretty quick. Sarge’s broken leg is a little more tricky, but they manage to work out a makeshift cast and stick a healing unit in his armor to speed things along. It takes both him and Epsilon nagging at her, voices getting shriller by the second, but Wash manages to convince Carolina to let him get her arm back in place before she starts scouting the area. 

The ship, or the half of it that’s left, apparently set them down in a shitty, closed off canyon. There’s a few caves here and there, but they don’t look particularly stable and with all of them still kind of fucked up, they decide to put off exploring. Well, most of them do. Wash’s pretty sure that even if she had Sarge’s broken leg, Carolina wouldn’t slow down. 

They set up two bases, because of course they do, but keep most of the supplies tucked away on the ship. Their fortifications aren’t exactly perfect, so Wash is pretty sure that just leaving things in the nice, armored crates they were traveling in until they need them is for the best. It’s three days before the ship stops being on fire. They’ve been there for two weeks when Carolina and Epsilon disappear. Wash isn’t surprised, but he can hear the hurt in Caboose’s voice and see it weighing on Tucker’s shoulders. 

It’s not fair, he realizes. They’ve lost Church too many times. So Wash doesn’t try to be Church, but he tries to lead. He’s pretty sure he’s fucking it up, but it’s all he can do. Someone has to keep them alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I mentioned this before, but I haven't exactly been writing this with chapter breaks in mind, so I'm just breaking it up where it feels natural for the most part. This chapter was a little shorter than I wanted it to be, so I added the last scene to this one instead of the next one. I don't know if it quite fits here, but I didn't want to leave you guys with a super short chapter after a week of waiting. But anyway, big thanks to everyone leaving kudos and comments, it always makes my day!


	4. Wake In Lonely Beds

The sky is open and bleeding.

He stands on the freeway and watches the ship careen past, burning and breaking. Familiar voices scream and he turns to see a flash of blades as the Meta carves Simmons in half. Carolina aims a gun at Tucker’s head and he’s too late for both of them. Schematics and numbers flit through his head and someone’s still screaming.

“Wash…”

It’s not his name, but Meta is growling something like it as he stalks forward. His back hits the wall and he can’t move, can’t run, his limbs too heavy, his head too full.

Hands grab his shoulders roughly and he slams a hand up and hears a thud. He grabs the knife under his pillow and has his attacker pinned to the floor, blade at their throat before the world comes into focus around him.

“Holy shit, Wash, i-it’s me. Wake up.” Tucker. That’s Tucker’s voice, terrified and out of breath and…

Wash blinks and reality flickers in. He’s not sure where they are, but he’s got Tucker pinned to the floor, one hand pressed tight to his collarbone, the other--

“Agent Washington, what are you doing?” Caboose is standing in the doorway, hands gripping at the frame so tight the metal looks ready to bend.

He’s _never_ heard Caboose sound like that, cheery voice cold and dangerously quiet, but he can’t blame him. The knife clatters to the floor and Wash scrambles to his feet, eyes wide, gut turning. Fuck, he’s going to be sick, he almost just--he was about to…

His back hits the wall and he wraps his arms tight around himself, breath coming in uneven bursts. Tucker’s slowly sitting up, staring at him with impossibly wide eyes as he rubs at his chest and throat. Caboose is still hovering in the doorway, face blank in a way that looks wrong. Wash looks between them and shakes his head. “I… I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

He tastes bile on his tongue and presses a hand to his mouth. His legs are shaking. All of him is shaking. The wall is all that’s keeping him up.

“Wash...”

Tucker’s up and moving toward him, Caboose at his shoulder. Wash flinches back, shoving himself back against the wall. He grips at himself, nails digging through the thin material of his shirt to bite at skin, his other hand raking through his hair. “Don’t,” he says, shaking his head desperately. “Don’t--just don’t. I-I can’t. I’m sorry, just… fuck, I just need a few minutes.”

A look passes between Tucker and Caboose that he can’t read. After a long moment, Tucker grabs Caboose by the elbow and tugs him out of the room. He waits until they’re gone to sink to the floor. Both hands claw at his head as he presses his forehead to his knees. He could have killed Tucker, he was an inch away.

All this time, acting like their leader, their friend, has made him forget what he is. A monster. He’s always going to hurt them. It’s all he can do.

Maybe he should have gone after Church and Carolina. Maybe he should have left while they were still in Valhalla. Maybe he should take that stupid knife and finish what the universe keeps trying to start.

No. No he can’t. They deserve a lot better than him… but they don’t deserve to be left behind again.

Wash scrubs a hand over his face and takes a few deep breaths. His legs are a little more steady when he rises and leaves his room. Low voices pull him into the kitchen. Caboose and Tucker sit across from each other on either side of the crates they’ve been using as a kitchen table. They both go quiet and look over as soon as he steps into the room. The light is better here, he can see a bandage on Tucker’s neck and he feels like he’s going to be sick again.

Arms wrapped tight around his stomach, hands curled into his shirt, he hesitates, an intruder walking in on something he shouldn’t. His legs feel shaky again, so he presses himself into the doorway.

“Tucker,” he says, hating the way his voice trembles. “God, fuck, I-I’m so sorry. Are you alright? D-did I--”

“Dude, it’s fine. That was barely a scratch. Get over here and sit down, you look like shit,” Tucker says, kicking the chair beside him out in an obvious invitation. “We’re doing that midnight snack bullshit. Caboose, where’s the cereal?”

“Oh yes! It was… somewhere.” He turns, looking around the boxes that they’ve stacked into a kitchen and taps at his chin. Picking a box at random, he starts digging.

Wash lingers in the doorway. He shouldn’t be here, he should just… go for a walk, or go back to bed, or--

“Wash, c’mon.”

He lets out a shaky breath and slowly walks over, hands still curled into his shirt as he sits on the very edge of his seat. It shouldn’t be a surprise that the nightmares are back. The crash site is full of little noises and he’s never been able to scout it out properly and all the shadows look like they might swallow them whole.

“So,” says Tucker, voice low. Wash glances over and finds Tucker watching him out of the corner of his eye. He braces himself.

“Do you usually get nightmares that bad?”

Wash blinks. Whatever he was expecting, that’s definitely not it. He stares at Tucker for a moment before shrugging. “Sometimes. It depends. It’s… it’s worse when I’m somewhere unfamiliar.”

Tucker nods slowly, the fingers of one hand drumming on the table, the other idly rubbing at his chest. Wash fights down a wince. There’s probably bruises there with how hard he was pinning him down. Caboose announces that the cereal isn’t there and leaves the room to go check the rest of the base. The silence is heavier with him gone.

“You never screamed when we were back in Valhalla,” Tucker says after a moment.

Wash turns to him again, brow furrowing. “What?”

“Sounded like… fuck dude, thought something was trying to murder you when I heard you.” There’s an odd, almost pained look on Tucker’s face as he shakes his head.

“Oh.” Wash looks away, not sure what to say. “I’m sorry if I woke you--”

Tucker slams his hands on the table and Wash almost jumps out of his seat. He rounds on Wash, something blazing in his eyes. “Stop doing that. What is wrong with you?”

Wash considers that for a moment. “Do you want that list in alphabetical order or from best to worst?”

That actually makes Tucker snort, though he doesn’t look happy about it yet. He shifts, leaning one arm against the table, turning to face Wash with his whole body. “You don’t need to say you’re sorry for having a fucking nightmare, Wash. Not like you want any of that shit in your head.”

“That doesn’t change…” Wash shakes his head, because Tucker isn’t getting it and he doesn’t know why. “I could’ve killed you.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Dude, Caboose has done worse than that since the day I met him. Did I ever tell you about the time he tried to set me on fire?”

“I… you know, I don’t think that’s come up.” Somehow, it’s not surprising. But Tucker’s trying to distract him and he’s falling for it.

“Yeah, he was going on and on about not having candles for Church’s birthday. He says he was just trying to set my chair on fire, but I’m pretty sure he’s full of shit. Took me ages to grow my hair out again.”

Wash nods, letting his eyes trail over Tucker’s hair, the long, thin dreads neatly braided together and draped over his shoulder with a casual sort of grace. It looks nice and soft and he needs to stop thinking about that right this fucking second. His hands curl more tightly into his shirt. No touching. He forces his eyes back to Tucker’s face and then away again, because he’s looking at him weird and Wash needs to go back to his room so he can quietly shrivel up and die.

“It’s uh… it’s nice now,” Wash says, because he’s an idiot and he can already feel his face burning. “Your hair, I mean. It looks like… you know. Good.”

Oh god, what is wrong with him?

He’s cringing so hard in his head that he doesn’t notice Tucker moving next to him until there’s a hand in his hair that makes him freeze. Wash can’t look at him, can’t move, can’t lean into that touch even though it’s… really, really nice and Tucker’s just gently scratching at his scalp in a way that sends little pleasant shivers down his spine and he can’t remember the last time anyone messed with his hair.

“Looks a helluva lot better than yours,” Tucker says, casually, like he’s not fucking with Wash’s entire being. “Shit, you’ve got a lotta gray in here. How fucking old are you?”

“Uh…” And Wash winces because three different numbers pop into his head and it takes him waaay too long to remember which one’s right.

He doesn’t have to answer because that’s when Caboose comes charging back into the room, a crate full of cereal hefted over his shoulder. “I found it!” He stops short and gasps. “Are we braiding Agent Washington’s hair? I want to help.”

“No Caboose, we--”

But then Caboose is on his other side and both of them are feeling up his hair and he has no idea what he’s doing with his life anymore.

It turns out that insisting his hair is too short to braid is both pointless and not entirely correct as Tucker manages to coax it into a few tiny braids, which just proves that he really needs to cut it soon. Caboose insists on a cereal party after that and Wash is too fucking deep cause he can’t say no when they both look at him with sad, brown eyes.

* * *

They’re stranded for too damn long.

Wash knows he’s getting antsy, that he shouldn’t be taking it out on Tucker, but it’s not as though he’s backing down either. Caboose is lost and drifting and he fills the space his teammates are giving him with a giant killer robot. Because of course he does. It doesn’t help that Wash is sleeping maybe an hour every other night now. Ever since that first nightmare, he sleeps on the ship in full armor. Or tries too. It’s not exactly comfortable and every little noise makes him jolt up, ready for an attack.

Simmons is stuck at their base and the other Reds feel a world away. Wash can’t look anyone in the eye after Donut and Doc and Lopez show up. But he has to fix this. It’s slipped out of his grasp and they’re going to fall apart. He wonders what Church would do in his place. Probably scream at them. Carolina would probably just beat them up and leave. Tex too.

So he tries a different method.

He’s kept the bits of Caboose’s helmet since the crash. It’s… it’s pretty fucked, but he manages to put it back together piece by piece. He tries to do the same with Tucker. Because he hasn’t been doing well there either, and Tucker makes that pretty fucking clear. It stings, but he gets it. Every time he looks at the faded burnt out mark on his palm, he wonders what York would say. Or North--he always had a knack for the emotional stuff.

Maybe that’s why he tells Tucker about them. Because he knows what it’s like to lose people. The way the sim troopers act, sometimes he forgets how much they’ve seen, how much they’ve lost. But he needs to be better. They deserve that much from him.

He fixes up Caboose’s helmet and it feels like maybe things are going to be alright. And then the mercenaries show up and it seems like everything’s going to shit again. Can’t they just have one good day?

* * *

 Felix waxes poetic about the New Republic and their civil war and Wash could not give less of a shit. They didn’t choose to crash here. This isn’t their fight. The sooner they can put this place--Chorus behind them, the better as far as he’s concerned.

The rest of the guys seem to agree, but it looks like Felix and his rebels are their only way out of this shitty little canyon. He convinces Caboose that Felix needs to go on a tour of the crash site and manages to get Tucker and Sarge to meet him in the ship.

“I don’t like it,” Sarge says immediately, and Wash feels a surge of gratitude. Given his usual level of paranoia, it’s a little reassuring to know he’s not the only one feeling it. “If these rebels have been looking for us, why didn’t this Felix fella show up ages ago?”

“It does seem rather convenient,” Wash agrees, nodding. “And why didn’t they contact us on the radio? For all we know, he could be making the whole thing up to lure us into a trap.”

“Yeah, but he did kinda save your ass from that Locus guy,” Tucker says, frowning. He paces the ship, fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword. “I don’t fucking know. This whole thing is weird.”

Sarge nods reluctantly. “Can’t argue with that, as much as I’d like to pick a fight with a Blue. Something don’t sit right about all this. But… way I figure it, ain’t exactly a lot of other options here.”

Wash lets out a breath and rubs at the back of his neck. “You’re not wrong. Alright… for now, we go along with Felix until he gets us out of here, but we stick together and we keep an eye on him.”

The other two both nod. Sarge hefts his shotgun. “He puts a toe out of line and blam-o!”

Tucker groans, but Wash can’t stop a little smile from sliding into place. “I like the way you think, Sarge.”

“Oh my god.” Tucker presses his hands to his visor and shakes his head. “Fine, if he acts shifty, we take him out. And by we, I mean you, Wash. Actually, have Freckles do it, then if those New Republic guys do show, we just tell them ‘oops looks like the killer robot went berserk and killed your dude, our bad’.”

“It’s not a terrible plan,” Wash says, nodding faintly, although he’s fairly certain Tucker’s at least half joking. “But for now just watch him. I don’t want him alone in either base or on the ship.”

It’s about then that all three of them realize that leaving him alone with Caboose might not be the best idea either. No one’s dead by the time they catch up with them, although Felix sounds like he wants to be. Good, Wash can’t help thinking. Maybe he’s being petty or his trust issues are acting up. In either case, he almost wishes they had left him alone with Caboose just a little longer. Apparently he had been planning to show Felix the tank next…

* * *

 The Reds are on Felix duty at night and Wash stations Freckles right outside the ship, because he’s pushing into sleep deprivation territory and he needs at least five hours to get his head back on straight. He’s made himself a little bed hidden under what was once a navigation panel. It’s not comfortable, and he has to curl in on himself to fit, but being protected on all sides but one and having a clear view of the exits are enough for him to feel safe enough to try to sleep.

He jolts awake to the sound of faint footsteps and a familiar whisper. “Sneaking, sneaking, sneaking…”

Wash sighs and rolls over and immediately jerks up and smacks his helmet against the underside of the console. Stars flash behind his eyelids as he clutches at his head. “Caboose…”

“Tucker did it.” But Caboose’s helmet is off so he can see the guilty look spreading across his face, illuminated ominously by the flashlight he’s holding under his chin for some reason. “Freckles said you were here and I wanted to have a ship slumber party. I brought extra blankets for our fort.”

“Our what?” His head is still throbbing. He motions for Caboose to move and scrambles out from under the console and tugs off his helmet. “Caboose, you should go back to the base.”

Caboose shifts, sitting on the floor next to him, a rather impressive number of blankets and pillows next to him. Where did he even get all those? Wash almost asks, but he stops himself, really looking at Caboose. He’s hunched in on himself, fiddling with the flashlight, turning it off and on again and again.

“Is… everything okay with you?”

“Yeah,” Caboose says, dragging out the word, still not looking at him. “Just… you don’t stay at the base anymore. And you made me my helmet and everything was gonna be good again, but you didn’t come back, and we’re friends, but you don’t do friend things.”

Wash hesitates. “Like… make forts?”

“Yeah, like that. And other things.”

“What other things?”

Caboose shrugs his massive shoulders, still clicking the flashlight. Wash lets out a breath and looks up at the ceiling. They’re still a work in progress. They’re friends, the proof of that is etched into his skin, and he can’t get rid of that. And, weirdly, he doesn’t want to. So he has to earn it.

“I’m not… very good at this, Caboose,” he says slowly, trying to figure out where to start. “It’s been a long time since I had friends. And even back then, we were all so busy with missions that we never really had much time for… friend things.”

And there’s a strange twinge of regret that comes with that. Wash hasn’t thought much about it or maybe he’s tried not to, but looking back there was never enough time. He had always meant to ask York to show him his card tricks. North had said over and over how much he wished they could use that old ping pong table in the rec room. Even South had made him promise, after she had snuck in some liquor that was sweet enough for him to actually get down, that he would take a pelican on a joyride with her one day.

But now he can’t. So much they could have done. Maybe those little moments would have changed things if there had been time.

He can’t make those mistakes again.

“Wash?” He blinks and finds Caboose watching him. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to do friend things with the scary people.”

Wash feels the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, the tight pain in his chest unwinding just a little. “Me too. But… I don’t want to miss out on that with you and Tucker. I just don’t really know where to start.”

“Oh, I can help with that! I’m very good at friend things,” Caboose says, and he’s smiling again so things can’t be that bad. He pauses, tapping at his chin in thought. “We need to make a fort, and Tucker has to make popcorn and I will make a fire for scary stories!”

Wash throws his hands up. “Wait, wait! No fires, Caboose! Let’s just… maybe start a little smaller.”

Caboose puts on his thinking face again, brow furrowed, mouth scrunched to one side in deep concentration. Then he gasps and claps his hand together. “I know!”

Turning toward Wash, Caboose opens his arms wide. Wash blinks at him. “Uh…”

“C’mon, Wash, hugging is a very important friend thing. It is nicer without pointy armor, but I do not mind.”

Wash freezes. He can’t, his arms are already wrapping around himself tightly and it’s like someone’s sucking the air away. “Caboose, I… I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Caboose frowns, arms falling a few inches. “Do you… not like hugs? Tucker says some people feel like hugs are going to smash them, but I’ve been practicing hugs that don’t hurt, so it will be okay.”

“I…” And it’s not that he doesn’t want to. Because Caboose is warm and welcoming and Wash can’t remember the last time he let someone hold him. His eyes flick down to his hands. He can’t let the cold, metal gray stain Caboose’s tawny skin.

Slowly, he lets himself lean into Caboose, hands still clenched into tight fists as he loops his arms loosely around a broad chest. Caboose envelopes him instantly, pressing him close, but not too tight. Wash remembers the snow and aching ribs and his feet leaving the ground. Too much too soon. But this… maybe he can let himself have this.

“Caboose? Where the fuck are you?” Tucker’s voice rounds the corner before he does. He stops short and just stares at the for a second and Wash feels like he should say something, but he’s not quite sure where to start. Tucker fills the silence for him. “Why are you still in your armor? Blue Team rule, no armor allowed in the blanket fort.”

“I’m--what? Since when is that a rule?” Wash asks, incredulous.

“No, he’s right.” Caboose nods, still not letting go of him. “But we are not in the fort yet, so it’s okay.”

They’ve both lost their minds. Wash shifts a little, but Caboose’s arms are sturdy and unyielding and he can’t get out. He doesn’t exactly feel trapped, but he’s pretty sure half the point is not to let him get away. “We aren’t making a fort. Both of you need to go back to the base and sleep.”

“And you don’t?” Tucker cocks an eyebrow at him, daring him to argue.

“I was trying to sleep here--”

“Cause you don’t have a bed back at the base.”

Wash groans and presses a hand to his brow. He’s not trapped in a hug anymore as much as Caboose is just half leaning on him, arms draped around his shoulders. “I can’t sleep at the base.”

“Why not?”

“Are there monsters under your bed?”

He sighs. “No Caboose, it’s…”

“The monsters in your head that made you beat up Tucker?”

Wash goes still, eyes fixed on the cold metal floor of the ship. He hears more than sees Tucker shift awkwardly on the spot. “I… okay, look, when you started screaming that night I--I had to tell him something, alright?”

He nods, not quite sure how to feel about that. Caboose shifts next to him, pulling at him a little, and Wash lets him, his back settling against Caboose’s chest, his chin resting atop Wash’s head. It’s surprisingly comfortable.

Tucker’s foot scuffs against the floor. He’s wearing old, beaten up tennis shoes, armor left behind for sweats and a t-shirt. He’s vulnerable this way, they both are. “That’s why you haven’t been sleeping in the base, right? We’re not quite as dumb as we look, Wash. Well, _I’m_ not.”  

The heavy breath that leaves him is shakier than Wash wants it to be. “I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you. Either of you,” he adds, letting himself lean back into Caboose a little more, hands itching where he keeps them clasped in his lap.

Caboose shifts a little, cheek pressing into Wash’s hair. “It’s okay, Wash. I am pretty strong, you wouldn’t hurt me very much, and it’s okay if you beat up Tucker sometimes. I can help if you want,” he says, the last part in a whisper that’s loud enough to carry across the room.

Tucker makes a vaguely annoyed noise and then pads across the floor to sit in front of Wash, legs crossed, so close their legs brush. “Wash, seriously, you’re exhausted. You’ve been trying to sleep out here for a week and it’s not doing shit. The nightmare thing happened once.”

“I know, but--”

“No, shut up,” Tucker says, cutting him off. “Here’s what’s happening. You’re gonna ditch your armor and help me and Caboose make a kickass fort, and you’re gonna get some fucking sleep.”

Wash opens his mouth to protest and then shuts it. There’s a strange little warmth in his chest and it takes a minute to name it. Pride. Tucker’s trying, he’s stepping up. Admittedly not quite in the way Wash has been picturing or hoping, but still. He sighs. “Yes sir, Private Tucker.”

Tucker makes a face and shoos him away after convincing Caboose to finally let go and he tries to ignore how weirdly cold he feels when his arms fall away. Reluctantly, he changes into an oversized sweater borrowed from Grif and a pair of sweats. He’s not sure why, but the sweater smells like cupcakes and… he kind of likes that actually.

The fort is still in progress by the time he gets back, bare feet cold against the metal floor. They’ve managed to get a few thin blankets tied to a few columns to form a decent roof, but a dispute has apparently broken out about the proper ratio of blankets to pillows. Wash just stands back until Tucker grabs him by the elbow and makes him help. Between the three of them, they actually manage to make it pretty comfortable, given that the floor is cold, solid steel.

Apparently Caboose decides they’re done when he flops down in the middle and refuses to get up. Tucker huffs and sinks down next to him and then looks up at Wash expectantly. “You just gonna stand there?”

“Uh…” He starts to move around to the other side, but Tucker grabs at him.

“No, you go in the middle. Caboose, move your ass.”

Already seeming half asleep, Caboose mumbles something unintelligible, but rolls over, leaving the only available space in between the pair of them. Wash hesitates, but it seems like there’s not much of a choice. Shoulders slumping in defeat, he carefully steps over the neat row of pillows and sinks down onto the pile of blankets.

It takes a lot of shifting and a few awkward elbows, but they all get settled. Caboose sleeps on his side, one arm thrown out, reaching across Wash to land on Tucker, who sprawls on his stomach, hair fanning out on the pillow. Lying on his back, Wash stares up at the blanket roof, listening to the soft, even breathing on either side of him. Tucker snuffles in his sleep and shifts closer, one arm creeping onto Wash’s chest, and his breath hitches because that hand is less than an inch from the aqua mark over his heart.

He doesn’t mean to, but at some point he must drift off, because he wakes up slowly to find faint morning light creeping through the ship. Both the other two have moved closer, arms locked around him, Tucker’s head on his shoulder, a little puddle of drool staining Grif’s sweater. Caboose’s curls are half smashed against the pillow, his chest warm against Wash’s arm. Wash should get up, he knows that. Because things are definitely going to go to shit again once he gets up. There’s no avoiding that.

Just a few more minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thank you so much to everyone commenting and leaving kudos! It means so much and I'm gonna try to do better with responding to them! So this is mostly just missing scenes, but they're important ones! Next chapter's going to be an interesting one, I can't wait to see what you guys think!


	5. If You Say it With Your Hands

Everything that could possibly go wrong does.

Sarge’s robot goes berserk and Locus shows up out of nowhere with a whole fucking army behind him. And of course Felix’s rebels are nowhere to be seen. Donut goes down and Wash feels his heart clench. He doesn’t even think before moving to his side and feeling for a pulse. Alive. He’s still alive.

Tucker charges across the crash site and it looks like they might make it. And then a blast hits him in the back and the ground rushes up to meet him. There’s a ringing in his ears, everything is fuzzy and distant, but he can hear someone yelling his name.

He pushes himself up and shakes his head. Tucker’s at the entryway of one of the caves. Felix yells for explosives. They’ve got to close it behind them to get away. The rebels are there and dying all around him. Sarge is motionless on the ground a few feet away. Wash looks toward Tucker and then turns away to give his last order.

The world shakes with Freckles and the cave collapses. Tucker will be safe. He’ll take care of the others. It’ll be alright.

Then Locus hits him from behind and he curses as the world fades away.

Dreams come and go and they all hurt. Wash wakes up in a room he doesn’t recognize. It’s a hospital, he realizes after a moment, recognizing the familiar machines he’s hooked up to, but it’s not the Mother of Invention. Everything his heavy and hazy, but he’s not alone. There’s two chairs on one side of his bed.

“Mornin’ Wash,” Sarge says, nodding to him. He’s got one hand shackled to the chair he’s sitting in, bandages peeking out from underneath the hospital scrubs he’s wearing. His free hand is on Wash’s shoulder, a gentle warm pulse coming from the touch.

There’s another warm, comforting tingle, like pins and needles at his knee. Wash glances down and finds Donut asleep, resting his head on the hospital bed. Just like Sarge, one of his hands is cuffed to the chair, but the other’s on Wash’s knee, pressed tight to the pink handprint.

Relief is the first thing he feels. They’re both alive. They’re still together. They just need to get out of this.

Wash tries to sit up, but Sarge’s hand gently pushes him back. “Easy there, son. The doc says you shouldn’t be up yet. Couldn’t go anywhere if you wanted to anyway.”

He follows Sarge’s eyes. There’s a cuff around his wrist too, in addition to all the equipment he’s still hooked up to.

“Tried to bust you out earlier,” Sarge says, leaning back in his chair. “Almost made it, but that Locus fella came outta nowhere. Can’t figure out what they’re aimin’ for. They ain’t asked us anything, won’t tell us much either.”

There’s something a little grim in his expression. Wash blows a breath out his nose and shakes his head. “They’re alright, I… I saw them get out before I went down,” he says, voice hoarse and weak. “Soon as I can get up, we’re getting out of here. We’ll find them.”

Sarge squeezes his shoulder. “Damn right, we will. Now you get some rest, son. Gonna need you in tip top shape to bust us out.”

Wash feels himself smile as he nods and lets himself drift off again.

* * *

Things aren’t as Felix said apparently. Shocker. That part’s a lot easier to swallow than the grand statements Locus keeps spouting at him. If it weren’t for him lurking around, Wash might not mind the Feds. Doyle’s an idiot, but a decent one. Dr. Grey is… interesting. She gives them a tour of the compound even though they’re scheduled to leave the next day. Apparently resources and forces are stretched pretty thin, so they’re moving with the supplies because Locus is determined to keep an eye on them. So where he goes, they go.

Wash isn’t particularly fond of the situation, but as long as they don’t try to split them up, he’ll go along with it.

Around the third transfer, he starts getting restless. No one’s been very forthcoming with news about the others. The New Republic has their base pretty well hidden and there’s not much intel other than the fact that they’re probably alive and getting themselves in way too deep. Doyle’s assurances that the Feds would try not to kill the others isn’t doing wonders for Wash’s nerves.

They’re in a forest this week, houses and encampments carved right into the massive, towering trees. It’s something out of a fantasy book and Wash finds himself wishing Simmons was there to see it. They’ve got a room just for the four of them this time, built high up into one of the trees, a little balcony letting them look over the rest of the camp. There’s a few Feds that have been traveling along with them for a while now who’ve got the room just below theirs. Wash wouldn’t call them friends, but… they’re easy enough to talk to and he knows most of their names despite his best efforts otherwise.

One of them, a gunner called Tobin with a thick bushy beard and a build like Caboose, had told him about the place on the way in. “Used to be a vacation spot for ritzy colonists, y’know?” he had said, as he led the way through the trees. “Whole city set up to be a tourist trap. Didn’t exactly work out that way. It’s called Acantha, but… all the guys call it Mirkwood.”

Wash had snorted at that, looking around. It was easy to see where things should have been. Half constructed buildings had been repurposed for storing ammo. Signs littered the streets, advertising hotels and attractions that had never been more than a pipe dream.

“Looks more like Lothlorien to me,” Donut had chimed in, looking around with bright eyes, helmet tucked under his arm. Wash has told him a dozen times to stop taking it off, because it’s going to give him a damn heart attack when there’s the slightest hint of sound or motion that could be someone lining up a headshot. It’s not that he doesn’t have faith in them, but seriously, how have they survived this long?

“That’s what I said!” Tobin turned to him, grinning. Wash had let them talk, more content to spend his time taking in all the details.

He’s out on the balcony, half out of armor, watching the sun slowly drift toward the horizon. It’s open and exposed and Wash hates that a little, but he can see almost the entire encampment from here. Leaning against the railing, he rolls up his right sleeve to his elbow, exposing the maroon handprint on his forearm. Wash wonders if Simmons would call the place Mirkwood or Lothlorien or something else entirely. He and Grif would probably fight over it, going back and forth for hours just to have something to bicker about.

“Hey Wash, what’re you doing out here?”

He turns a little, finding Donut at the top of the stairs, dressed in loose pink sweats. “Just thinking,” Wash says, looking back out over the camp. “How was your run?”

They’re all adjusting differently. Sarge cleans his shotgun four times a day and Donut’s taken to jogging with Tobin and a few other Feds. It’s probably better than Wash’s brooding and sneaking into training rooms when he can to beat punching bags until they split.

“Good, good.” Donut draws close, leaning against the railing next to him. “A couple of the guys took me down to this little lake. It was so nice. We all stripped down and got a little wet. You should come with us next time.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Wash says, with a faint nod. He won’t and they both know it, but he can’t outright tell Donut no about anything. The words stick in his throat and trip over too much guilt on the way out.

“You miss the guys, huh?”

Wash blinks, turning to Donut, eyebrows rising. Donut nods knowingly at the still exposed handprint on Wash’s arm. He feels color rise in his face and quickly rolls his sleeve back down. Or tries to, Donut reaches over and stops him, catching his hand. “It’s okay, Wash, you don’t have to cover it up. I’ve got one just like that.”

Donut pulls up his shirt sleeve, a maroon handprint just like Wash’s curling over his shoulder. “It’s kinda nice, isn’t it? Like we’ve still got a little piece of them around, just enough to hold and squeeze when we’re alone.”

“I… I guess.” Wash’s gaze drops to his arm again, fingers idly tracing the mark. “At least we know they’re alive. I keep thinking… one of these days, I’ll wake up and they’ll be gone.”

“Oh Wash.” And he manages not to flinch when Donut reaches over again, gently covering Simmons’ mark with his small, delicate hand. “You can’t think like that. They’re gonna be alright. We’ll find them. So just… buck up, mister.”

Wash lets out a huff that’s almost a laugh as he shakes his head. “Alright. I don’t know how you can be so positive about this.”

Donut’s hand moves from his arm to lightly punch Wash’s shoulder. “Hey, someone has to look on the brightside. You and Sarge have been so gloomy lately. Just have a little faith in them.”

“I do,” he says, a little taken aback by how much he means it. “I know that they’re capable, but this planet, this war--”

“Isn’t even close to the worst thing we’ve come up against,” Donut says lightly. “We’ve had you Freelancers crawling all over us for years trying to get a piece. They can take care of themselves until we find them.”

“But they could be anywhere, how can you know--”

“Because we’re supposed to, Wash. We’re all meant to be together. I mean, we wouldn’t all be marked for each other if we weren’t.” He pauses, eyes flicking over Wash. “Oh… should probably mention that I’ve seen yours.”

Wash blinks at him. “Uh.”

Donut smiles and waves a hand airily. “When you were in surgery, silly, right after they took us from the crash site. Sarge and I asked to be allowed in so we could break you out as soon as the doctors put you back together. They were pretty short handed, so we got to help with the operation!”

Wash has no idea how to feel about that, so he just stares at Donut with wide eyes for a few moments before turning away again with a slight nod. The next time he sees Dr. Grey he’s going to have to ask about that. “I see. Well that was… nice of you,” he says, trying not to sound strained and not quite managing. “So you’ve seen all my marks?”

“I think so, or most of them at least. You sure do have a lot. I used to think my seven were pretty impressive, like a rainbow I get to wear all the time, but you’ve got even more than that. It must be nice.”

Shrugging, Wash rubs at his right hand absently. “That’s what everyone says.”

He feels Donut watching him as the silence settles between them for a few long moments. “It’s not a bad thing, Wash… even if some of them are gone. But it’s okay if you don’t like them.”

Wash glances at him, one eyebrow rising. Donut’s offering him a kind smile, one he definitely doesn’t deserve. He shifts, pulling up his other sleeve, an orange handprint standing out on pale skin. “I used to hate this one. I mean, augh, orange? Really? It doesn’t go with anything. When I was a kid I used to think that it had to be a mistake. But then I started thinking about the person it belonged to. Maybe orange looked really, really nice on them. I know it’s silly, but I made up all these stories about who they might be.”

“I did that too,” Wash says, catching himself by surprise. Donut’s eyes light up, so he has to keep going, even if he can’t look at him. “When I was… dealing with some things, I used to think about them, about who you all might be. It helped.”

Donut coos and lightly shoves at Wash’s arm. “I always knew you were a big softie.”

Wash smiles despite himself. “Don’t tell Sarge.”

“Scout’s honor,” Donut says, crossing his heart. “Oh, hey, I should show you yours.”

“My what--” He cuts himself off as Donut yanks at the collar of his shirt, tugging it out of the way to reveal part of what’s unmistakably Wash’s deep gray handprint curling over the skin where neck meets shoulder. His fingers itch and something in his chest goes tight.

“When did I…”

“It was when we were wheeling you out of the operating room, you were in and out and you grabbed me.” Donut’s brow furrows in thought, fingers still brushing the mark. “You were pretty confused, you called me… oh what was it--North I think. Was that a friend of yours?”

It suddenly feels much colder and Wash shifts, pressing himself against the railing, arms wrapping tight around his stomach. He swallows thickly and manages a nod. “Yeah, he was.”

He hears a faint sigh next to him and then there’s a gentle weight against his side. Donut wiggles a hand through the crook of Wash’s elbow and leans against him, fluffy blonde hair smushed against Wash’s shoulder. “You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to, but I wish you wouldn’t shut down like that.”

“I… sorry.”

“Oh Wash.” He’s not quite sure what that tone means, it’s sad, but it doesn’t sound like pity. It’s not too bad.

They stand there for a while before Sarge yells for them to stop fraternizing and get inside.

* * *

The next compound is almost entirely underground. It was apparently originally supposed to be a massive storage facility. It’s claustrophobic and every second they’re stuck there is like something out of one of his nightmares. Wash’s spent far too much time tucked away in windowless rooms, jumping at every little sound. But at least there’s something to do.

He starts training the troops half by accident.

There’s never enough room for him to have somewhere to train on his own, so he’s in his little isolated corner one day, doing his usual workout when he has to get up and stalk across the room to correct the way a pair of privates are sparring. And from there, he has to stop a lieutenant from loading a training rifle backwards, and then another private who’s clearly never thrown a punch before.

Wash doesn’t realize how long he’s been at it until a loud speaker chimes announcing dinner in the mess hall. It becomes a regular thing after that. He still doesn’t care about this stupid war, but if he can teach the Feds how to aim worth a damn, maybe they won’t accidentally kill one of his men.

Sarge holes up in the armory and makes himself at home. Donut flutters here and there, making new friends, helping Lopez fix up vehicles, and popping in on Wash from time to time. They talk more. Wash isn’t sure how to feel about it, but… it’s not exactly bad. Usually, he lets Donut do most of the talking, it’s easier that way. He still trips over his words, but he’s never been the best at talking, even when he doesn’t have guilt to choke on.

He doesn’t spend a lot of time out of armor anymore. In Mirkwood, where he could see everything coming, it wasn’t so bad. Here, it’s all tight corners and closed in, metal hallways. Donut has to talk him and Sarge out of sleeping in their armor multiple times. At least the grizzled old soldier understands. They don’t talk as much, but Sarge is decent company when Wash needs somewhere to lie low after hours of answering endless training questions. There’s only so many times he can say ‘no soldier, you’re holding that backwards’ or ‘stop hitting him right now! Twenty laps from all of you!’ before it gets old.

With such close quarters, it’s difficult to get time to himself. There’s always someone that wants something or needs something. Wash doesn’t mind when it’s Donut or Sarge, but sometimes all the attention is just too damn much. He needs some room to breathe.

So he starts sneaking into the training rooms in the middle of the night. There’s hardly anyone around in the halls, just a few guards near the armory and another at every entrance or exit. No one stops him as he slips out of his room and down the hallways, feet quiet on the steel floors as he makes his way into the training room.

It becomes a habit on nights he can’t sleep, which is most of them here. Wash tries to fall asleep to the sounds of Sarge’s chainsaw snoring and Donut’s soft sleep mumbling, but usually after an hour of lying in the dark, he gets up and gets in a few hours of decent training. It’s usually enough to tire him out to the point where he can sleep a little afterward. Not perfect, but it works.

Wash is sure it would work better if it didn’t feel like he was being watched. Locus, for once, doesn’t arrive with them, other matters calling him away. He shows up four days after they do, stalking silently through the halls. For the most part, Wash ignores him. The Feds are annoying, but they’re alright, Locus is another matter entirely. It doesn’t matter how he explains the situation in the crash site, Wash isn’t about to trust that fucker in a million years. If only the asshole would stop watching him.

Sarge and Donut have even agreed. Wash isn’t just being paranoid. Locus watches everything in the base, but him most of all.

“Maybe he just wants to talk to you and he’s shy,” Donut says one day, after Wash ducks into their room and peers back down the hallway behind him, looking for a hint of black and green.

“Even if that’s the case, I don’t want to talk to him.”

He doesn’t end up having much of a choice. That night, he gets up with a sigh and quietly slips out of the room and heads for the training area. His armor is left behind and he’s sure someone’s watching him, but he keeps his shoulders squared and his back straight as he steps into the training room and shuts the door behind him.

As Wash sets up a punching bag, the door opens and shuts so quietly and quickly, for a second, it seems like it’s actually just in his head, but then there’s the faintest hint of movement against the wall and he lets out a breath. He works the bag for a few minutes, hands carefully wrapped. The door doesn’t open again. After another minute, he sighs and steps back, rolling his shoulders. “I know you’re there.”

Silence greets him. Wash is half sure he’s not getting a response, but then the wall ripples as Locus drops the cloaking. “You should be sleeping, Agent Washington.”

He doesn’t bother trying not to roll his eyes as he goes back to the bag. “Are you here to scold me for staying up past my bedtime?”

Locus says nothing for a few long moments. Wash half expects him to disappear and slip out of the room again. But he stays.

“You’ve been training the Federal Army,” he says, low, gravely voice carefully free of any emotion. “Why?”

Wash shrugs, not letting up, not even glancing Locus’ way. “They need training and I have nothing else to do since you and General Doyle refuse to let me look for the rest of my men.”

“And yet you still claim to have no stake in this war?”

“Because I don’t,” Wash says, voice even, though he may add a little extra force to his next few blows. He spins and kicks the bag hard enough to knock it free of the chain holding it up. Alright, maybe that was a bit much. Breathing a little hard, he moves to grab the bag again. “But… there’s some decent people here, they deserve a fighting chance.”

“Very noble of you,” Locus says, though it doesn’t sound as though he approves. Good. “Even though they may put those skills you teach them to use against your friends--”

Wash makes a point of hanging the bag back up with as much clanking of the chain as possible. He looks over at Locus, giving him a smile that’s all teeth. “I’m sorry, were you saying something?”

There’s a deep, gravelly sigh. “I’m merely trying to understand you, Agent Washington.”

Staring at him, Wash tips his head to one side. “And why the hell do you want to do that?”

Locus slowly steps away from the wall. There’s still a love of space between them, but he’s moving around, circling like a shark in the water. Can’t let him smell blood. “You intrigue me. I believe we are more alike than you know.”

Lips curling, Wash drives a fist into the bag. There’s a sharp sting from his knuckles. Those are definitely going to bruise. “We’re not. And don’t ever say that again.”

The words sound almost strange to his own ears, remembering the last time they came out of his mouth. Now, Wash would take being like Caboose any day over being anything like Locus. Neither of them speak again, but he can feel Locus watching him even as he puts away the bag and heads out of the room.

Locus is already there waiting the next night, not even bothering to hide himself. He tries to say something a few times, but Wash cuts off the questions or flat out ignores him until he goes quiet. The next night, Locus is there again, but he doesn’t say a word. Wash barely even looks his way until he’s heading for the door. It’s then that he pauses and casts a glance toward him.

“If you’re going to keep showing up to spy on me, the least you could do is give me something better to punch than the bag,” Wash says, and then leaves without another word. He’s not sure why he said it. Maybe he wants to get a better idea of what Locus can do in close combat fighting, or maybe he just wants to hit him a few times. In either case, he doesn’t actually expect Locus to take him up on it.

The training room is empty when he gets there, although he’s half sure someone was following him. He’s stretching when the door opens a few minutes later and a scowl automatically slides into place as he glances toward it. But then it fades, his brow furrowing as an unfamiliar man steps into the room. Scars make an ‘x’ between his eyes, his smooth, dark hair tied back neatly, dark circles under his eyes standing out even against his deep brown skin.

Wash honestly still hasn’t seen a whole lot of the Feds without their helmets on and he’s never been the best with putting names to faces. “Can I help you with something soldier?”

The corner of the man’s lips twitches ever so slightly as he steps onto the mats. “That depends,” says a voice that’s too familiar, smoother without the helmet in the way, still deep and rumbling. “I believe you mentioned wanting to spar, Agent Washington.”

Lips curling into a frown, Wash moves slowly in a circle, Locus mirrors him, two hunters not yet moving in for the kill. Even without his armor, Locus is broad and tall, his back straight with military discipline. He feels dark eyes watching him. They’re both sizing each other up, waiting to see who’ll move first.

Fuck it.

Wash moves forward, throwing a punch that Locus blocks with ease, and then a kick, that he almost doesn’t. Locus strikes back, trying to throw him off with a kick to his knee, that Wash narrowly avoids. They go back and forth, trading blows, dancing around each other. It’s not like training with the Feds, who are all awkward and unsure, or so gung ho that they trip over themselves. Locus sure as hell isn’t afraid to hit him, and he’s more than willing to take a few punches himself.

At some point, they both stop holding back. Probably somewhere between Locus sweeping his legs and Wash driving an elbow into Locus’ gut hard enough to wind him for a moment. Wash takes a blow to the face that splits his lip and he tastes blood and then he manages to grab Locus by the shoulders and brings his knee up hard right where it hurts. Time with the sim troopers has taught him the benefits of fighting dirty.

“Had enough?” he asks, grinning, knowing there’s blood on his teeth.

Locus answers him with a charge that forces Wash’s back against the wall. He sucks in a sharp, pained breath and then there’s a hand around his throat and he’s pretty sure this whole thing was a really, really bad idea in retrospect. There’s a knife carefully tucked into the leg of his pants, but he can’t get at it without being obvious. His hands fly to Locus’ wrist. One of them doesn’t make it, Locus moves impossibly fast and pins it to the wall.

“Relax, Agent Washington. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be long dead by now.”

Wash can still breathe, but that alone isn’t particularly reassuring. He grits his teeth, eyes narrowed, nails biting into Locus’ wrist. “Then what do you want?”

Locus’ thumb brushes over his pulse and Wash takes a breath through his nose, knowing that it must be going a million miles a second. He needs to calm down. This is Locus baiting him, trying to get a reaction. Or something. There’s something in Locus’ eyes that he can’t quite place.

“I want… to understand.”

Wash blinks at him. What the fuck does that mean? There’s a slight hum to his nerves and he’s definitely missing something here. Locus is still looking at him strangely and the hand at his throat twitches when Wash licks blood from his lip and the dots won’t connect. “Understand what?”

For a moment, Locus narrows his eyes, then his hand moves, sliding to splay across Wash’s collarbone, the thin material of his shirt the only thing stopping his hand from lining up exactly with the deep green mark there. It’s enough. Wash sucks in a sharp breath, electricity going through him, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Oh. Well fuck. What the hell is he supposed to do about that?

“I saw it at the crash site, when I was checking your vitals. Yours is here,” he says, his other hand moving Wash’s from his wrist a little further down his forearm. Wash doesn’t stop him, because his brain is still shorting the fuck out. This isn’t happening. There’s no goddamn way.

“We’re connected, Agent Washington.”

And Locus is leaning in and Wash can’t breathe and this is not how this is supposed to go. They were just supposed to beat the shit out of each other. To blow off steam. Or something. He doesn’t know, but he needs to leave twenty seconds ago. What should he do? Punch him in the dick and run, offers a part of his brain that sounds a lot like Tucker. It’s very tempting.

He throws up his hands, accidentally on purpose smacking Locus in the face a little. “Stop, just--whatever you’re doing, stop.”

That seems to get Locus to at least back off a bit, leaning back even if he’s still waaaay too close for comfort. Wash can work with that. He just has to get his head together. Has he been sending mixed signals here? No… no, he’s pretty sure that he’s been consistent. Except for that offer to spar. But really, who would hear that as ‘let me feel you up and try to make a pass at you?’

Well… Tucker probably. And Locus apparently.

This is really, really not the time to be thinking about Tucker.

He clears his throat. If he could sound like a functional adult right now, that would be just great. “Look, whatever kind of… connection you think we have--we don’t. As far as I’m concerned, as long as you’re standing between me and my men in any capacity, these marks don’t mean a damn thing. Now let go of me.”

The edge in his own voice almost surprises him, but he never lets his glare falter. Locus stares at him for a few long moments. If any of it bothered him, he doesn’t let it show. Not exactly surprising, the guy’s got a good poker face. After what feels like hours, Locus finally steps back, arms dropping to his sides.

Wash lingers, back pressed to the wall, waiting for an attack. But it never comes. The silence is thick and suffocating, but Wash doesn’t say a word as he walks straight past Locus and out the training room doors. If he runs back to his room and locks the door behind him, that’s absolutely no one else’s business but his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the nice comments last chapter! We're finally getting to the stuff that's been a little more fun to write. I have a lot of feelings about Donut and Wash, which is probably pretty obvious here, and some other feelings about Locus and Wash. But anyway! I hope you guys like this one!


	6. Wish I Could Run To You

They move to another compound the next day. Wash would be happier putting the bunker behind them if not for two things: The fact that the new base they’re headed to is in fact the same one where he first awoke and, once again, Locus is coming along with them. Great, just fucking  great.

He sticks close to Donut and Sarge as they make the move, twitching at the slightest of sounds, looking over his shoulders for faint hints of movement. “So, Wash,” Donut says, his tone almost aggressively casual, “you seem a little… I don’t know, jumpy today.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, probably for the tenth time. Wash doesn’t have to glance at the other two to know the look they’re exchanging.

“Oh hey, is that Locus,” Donut says suddenly.

“Fuck, where?” Wash moves without thinking, ducking behind Sarge, hands going for his rifle. Really, it’s not the best hiding spot. For one thing, even in armor, Sarge is nearly a foot shorter than him, so he’s hunched over and definitely looking pretty stupid. They’re both probably looking at him like he is behind their helmets. “Uh… I know this looks weird…”

“That it does, son.” It definitely sounds like Sarge is about to laugh at him.

Sighing, he straightens up. “Look, it’s just… let’s talk about it when we get to the base.”

Maybe by then they’ll have forgotten all about his little episode.

His wish is half granted. Dr. Grey greets them at the compound entrance. She waves brightly and steps neatly around several soldiers to get to them. “Hello again! It’s so nice to see you all still breathing. I heard you were coming back, so I decided to pop down and say hello!”

“It’s good to see you again, Dr. Grey,” Wash says, offering a polite nod. They step out of the way of the soldiers, who pour in, loaded up with supplies.

“I hope things have been going well for you here,” he says as it occurs to him that he hasn’t really been keeping up on how the Feds are actually doing. Wash only checks the few reports they’re allowed to see for mentions of familiar names. Admittedly, that list has grown a little as a new face sticks in his head now and then. The war isn’t his concern. It doesn’t matter which side wins or loses. But… there’s a few members of the Federal army that deserve to make it through.

Caring about people is a liability, but he can’t stop the way his stomach twists when a name he knows is listed with the injured, or worse. And that’s almost certainly the sim troopers’ fault for making him remember how to give a damn about people. Assholes. All of them.

“It’s been pretty much the same as always,” Dr. Grey says, waving a hand. “Plenty of bullet wounds to treat and prosthetics to fit. Ooh there was a lung transplant yesterday, that was exciting!”

Wash is very glad no one can see the face he’s making inside his helmet. “Well that sounds… neat,” he says weakly.

“Oh it was. I think I had someone record that one. I could show you the tapes if you like.”

“Uh…”

“I’d love to have a look at them tapes,” Sarge says, sounding worryingly genuine. He steps forward, gently elbowing Wash out of the way. “I’ve done a bit of experimental surgery myself. Made one of my men a cyborg a few years back.”

Dr. Grey sucks in a little gasp and steps closer. “Fascinating. I’ve seen plenty of research about integrating humans with robotic equipment, but I’ve never done more than a few robotic limbs. Tell me, how did you manage to make room for the necessary circuitry to operate everything?”

“Easy, that was just a matter of taking the bits he didn’t need and puttin’ ‘em in one of my other men,” Sarge says, waving a hand dismissively. “Plus, you save tons of room if you put the hefty processors in the arm instead of the chest. Don’t overheat as easy that way too.”

“I see,” Dr. Grey says, with a nod that’s far too enthusiastic. “You know, I could always use an extra pair of hands in surgery if you’re not doing anything right now. I don’t mean to steal you away but--”

“Little lady, it would be an honor.” And Sarge fucking bows and offers her his arm.

Wash stares pointedly at the snow on the ground as Dr. Grey giggles and links their arms together. On the list of things he never expected to see, this is pretty damn high. He glances at Donut, hoping to find awkward solidarity. No dice. Donut has his hands clasped together pressed against the side of his helmet and Wash is sure he’s sighing wistfully. If Grif were there, he’d be gagging for sure. Wash can almost hear Tucker’s uncomfortable laughter or Simmons’ awkward sputtering.

Sarge nods to him and Donut. “Go and get settled, I’ll catch up later.”

Donut grabs Wash by the wrist, nodding as he makes a little shooing motion at Sarge and the doctor. “You two crazy kids have fun, we’ll just go find our room. C’mon Wash.”

He doesn’t have it in him to argue, so he just lets Donut pull him along. “Was Sarge serious about that cyborg thing?” he asks, because he can’t stop himself.

“Oh yeah, that’s old news. See, Grif got smashed with a warthog, so Sarge gave him a lot of Simmons’ organs and stuff and made Simmons into a cyborg. Man, that was ages ago, good times.”

Wash is pretty sure he’s heard parts of this before, and he’s seen Simmons and Grif without helmets a few times, but he had never exactly thought to ask about the robotic eye or the part of Grif’s face that didn’t look like it belonged there. “Why didn’t he just make Grif into a cyborg?”

Donut laughs. “You really think Sarge would use his super high tech robot bits on Grif?”

“I… I guess that’s a good point.” He wants to ask what the deal is with them, because he’s never understood. Just one of those weird Red Team things. And he can’t believe he just thought that. The teams don’t matter. They’ve never mattered.

But the Reds are still beyond his understanding in some ways and probably always will be. And that’s starting to seem like it’s for the best really.

“I think it’s more romantic this way anyway,” Donut says, lightly. “They’re literally part of each other. Isn’t it sweet?”

“It’s… something.” Wash doesn’t know what part of that to touch, so he just lets it go.

They find the room that they’ve been assigned to. There’s two bunk beds, their stuff already shoved into one corner. It’s not a big room, but it has a window, so it’s already better than the last place by leaps and bounds. Admittedly, there’s not a whole lot to see out the window, but there’s hints of sunlight and that’s enough.

Donut releases his wrist and moves to inspect the room. “You know, I don’t want to be _that guy_ , but would it kill the Feds to hire a decent interior decorator? If they would just get some curtains, or maybe coordinate their colors a little, I mean, really? Beige on green on beige? Taaaaacky.”

Wash lets him fret as he goes through their things, making sure everything’s still where it should be. Donut’s done this in every new room. It seems to be how he makes himself comfortable. Once he’s done going over all the details and how the room ought to be laid out, he flounces back over to Wash’s side.

“So Wash, top or bottom?”

Good thing his helmet’s still on, because his face is definitely on fire. “What? I-I don’t--”

“Of the bunk bed, silly.” Donut scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Unless you’d rather share with Sarge or Lopez.”

“No, no, that’s fine. You pick, I don’t care.”

“Well, I’ve always preferred bottom myself.”

Wash can practically hear Tucker’s voice in his head making several choice comments. He has to stop that. It hasn’t been that long. And they’re all still alive. That should be enough.

But it’s not.

Because he can’t stop wondering what jokes Tucker would crack, or the way he would bitch and moan at the training regimen he’s given the Feds. And he can almost picture Simmons and Grif sniping at each other, pointing out funny signs as they move from base to base after arguing over who gets to ride shotgun in the transport vehicles. It feels like it’s been years since Caboose hugged him and insisted on making a blanket fort.

He jolts a little when a hand lands on his shoulder, instantly reaching for the knife at his hip before looking up at Donut.

“Wash, are you doing okay? You’ve been acting weird. And not just Freelancer weird.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “Freelancer weird?”

“Yeah, like how you check all the exits and make sure we’re not being followed, that stuff. You’re doing it right now--going through all our stuff to make sure it’s all there and not secretly a bomb or something.”

He wants to argue, to say that all of that is basic safety protocol and that they should all be doing it, but Donut’s probably got a point.

Donut moves to sit on one of the lower bunks and pats the space next to him. “C’mere Wash, let’s talk.”

Against his better judgement, Wash moves to sink next to him. Donut tugs off his helmet and runs a hand through his hair, the fluffy blonde waves falling delicately into place, half covering the thin lines of the spider like scar on one side of his face, just barely visible beneath a smooth layer of carefully applied makeup. How and why Donut bothers keeping himself so put together is definitely one of those Red things that Wash is never going to understand.   

“Helmet off, this is a safe space,” Donut says, tapping insistently at Wash’s knee.

Wash, hesitates, looking toward the still open door. He hasn’t had time to scope out the base. There could be a dozen angles outside a sniper could take. Nothing would stop Locus from materializing just outside and storming in. Someone could easily toss a grenade right through--

Donut seems to follow his gaze and lets out a little sigh as he gets up and looks outside before closing the door. He turns toward Wash, hands on his hips. “There, now no one’ll take us from behind. Are you ready to talk now, mister?”

No, is the very honest answer. Whatever Donut’s about to ask him, Wash is pretty sure he’s never going to be ready. But it’s not as though he can just leave… unless he tries the window. No, no, he can do this. Just an open, honest talk about his feelings.

Jesus Christ, maybe he should try the window.

Reluctantly, he tugs off his helmet and sets it on the floor. That seems like a good starting point. The bunk creaks as Donut takes his place again, sitting cross legged on the thin mattress. “So, what’s been going on with you lately?”

Wash shrugs, looking over at the other bunkbed. It doesn’t really look structurally sound. Neither does the one they’ve claimed. Maybe he should make Donut top after all. Take the top. Jesus, now he’s doing it.

There’s a gentle tap at his knee again. “Wash, c’mon, you can talk to me. You know that right?”

And amazingly, he actually does know that. Donut isn’t the brightest bulb, but he’s decent, and he seems to like this emotional talking thing for whatever reason. And more than that, despite everything and all the very good reasons he has to hate Wash, Donut doesn’t. He’s trying so, so hard. The least Wash can do is meet him halfway.

Sighing, he nods, picking at one of his gloves. “It’s… a lot of things. I guess.”

“Well, let’s pick a place to start. It’s easy to start at the tip and then just slowly, slowly work your way down to the meat of the issue.”

Wash shuts his eyes and sucks in a breath through his nose. God fucking damn it. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately,” he says slowly, that seems like a decent place to start. “The last base we were in… I hated it.”

“Oh tell me about it,” Donut says, with a dramatic wave of his hand. “The lighting was terrible, those florescent bulbs give me such a headache, and they tint everything yellow. I swear, I was using the wrong foundation the entire time we were there, so embarrassing.”

He pauses, frowning. “Why didn’t you like it?”

Wash shifts uncomfortably. Maybe he should have picked somewhere else to start. He runs a hand through his hair. “It uh… it reminded me of prison.”

And he winces, waiting for the pity, or confusion. But it doesn’t come. He risks a glance over and finds Donut tapping at his chin in thought. “Y’know, I could totally see that. Huh. I bet they wouldn’t have that problem if they fixed the ventilation, got some breathable air down there. Is that why you never slept there?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck a little awkwardly, he nods. So much for thinking he had been so sneaky slipping out of the room at night. “Yeah. I slept a little, but… yes.”

“Did something happen to you in prison?”

Wash blinks, the quiet concern, and hint of… anger in Donut’s tone catching him by surprise. Slowly, he shakes his head, brows furrowing. “No, not really. I was just locked up in my cell most of the time. Sometimes I used to think they’d just forgotten about me. I’m pretty sure they would have executed me eventually, but--”

He stops talking, looking down at his hands. Donut’s holding one of them now. “Uh… Donut?”

“I’m so sorry, Wash.”

What? Wash runs what he’d said back through his head. Yeah he’s pretty sure he’s missed something here. “That was ages ago. It’s fine--”

“No it’s not!” Donut’s eyes are bright and shining with something he can’t quite name. “The guys--they told me about that, how you got thrown in prison because they left you.”

“Oh. Well, yeah, but they didn’t know that. It’s fine, Donut, really. They had no idea what was going to happen, and I was the one that told them to run for it,” he says, realizing, with a faint hint of surprise, that he means it. There had been anger there, and a hell of a lot of it, there once, but… it’s long gone now, covered by far too many other things.    

After all, with everything he’s put them through, accidentally letting him get arrested seems pretty small in comparison.

Donut’s still making weird faces, and Wash has no idea what to do with that, so he stares at his feet. “The how I got there isn’t important--it’s really not,” he adds, because he can practically hear Donut’s protest coming. “And it wasn’t just the place…”

Wash winces at himself. Fuck. Maybe he should have just let Donut fuss more.

“What else was it?” Donut asks, lightly jabbing Wash’s side with his elbow. When the hell did he get closer? Wash is really letting his guard down around him, that’s definitely going to bite him in the ass.

Wash makes a vague noise and shrugs.

“Was it Locus?”

He can’t stop himself from wincing and Donut makes a soft noise of triumph. “Ha, got it on my first guess! Ten points!”

Rolling his eyes, Wash scuffs the toe of his armored boot across the floor, staying quiet until Donut nudges him again. “Soooo, what about Locus? Did something happen?”

Wash makes a few more vague noises until he gets yet another nudge. “Kinda. There was… sort of a thing the last night we were there.”

“What kind of a thing?” And Donut sounds way too curious about it.

“It’s really nothing that interesting.”

Donut clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Wash, if it was nothing, you wouldn’t have brought it up. Now spill. I want every little last juicy drop out of you.”

Dragging a hand through his hair again, Wash blows out a breath. Seriously, how does Donut not know how this stuff sounds? No, don’t focus on that. “He was following me around, for the last few days we were there. It was starting to get to me, so I challenged him to a sparring match. Sort of. I didn’t actually think he’d show up.”

“But he did?” Donut seems a little too intrigued.

Wash nods, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“So what happened?”

“He said…” Wash pauses and lets his hand drift to his armor, resting over the spot where that damn dark green handprint is mocking him even under layers of metal and kevlar. “He said we were connected. You uh… you said you’ve seen my marks, right?”

“Yeah…” Donut just stares at him for a moment. Wash can almost see the gears turning in his head as Donut’s eyes go wide and he claps a hand over his mouth. “No! Is he…”

Wincing, Wash nods.

“Oh my god--ooooh my god, what did you do?”

“Not much,” Wash says, shrugging. “I don’t know what the hell I was supposed to do, so I just stood there, and then… I think he was trying to--I don’t know, kiss me or something.”

“Did you let him?”

“God no. I told him I wasn’t interested and then… I just ran.”

And it sounds kind of stupid when he says it out loud, but really, what else was he going to do there?

Donut lightly pats his knee in what’s probably supposed to be a comforting way. It is, for some reason, even with a layer of armor and kevlar covering the mark. “And you haven’t talked to him since?”

Wash shakes his head.

For some reason, Donut gets up and starts going through his things. “I wasn’t sure, but this is definitely a wine and cheese talk. Hmm no, wine and chocolate.”

“What does that have to do with--oh my god.” Wash cuts himself up as Donut straightens up, bottle of… something under his arm, and several chocolate bars in his hands, along with a few smaller bottles. He squints. “Is that… nail polish?”

Donut hums as he nods and walks back over, plopping down next to him. “Having your nails done is very soothing. I don’t have the things for a full manicure right now, but I can at least paint them, and then you can do mine.”

“I don’t--I don’t see how that’s going to help.” But he doesn’t stop Donut from reaching over to yank off his gloves.

“Just trust me, Wash. There’s nothing like relaxing and letting someone else handle your bits for a while to take the edge off.” Donut pulls off his own gloves and tosses them carelessly to the floor before tugging the cork from the bottle. He smells it before taking a sip. “I found this back in Lothlorien. There was this place the guys found that must have been a wine cellar and we all took a few bottles. I think this is a Merlot, try some, it’s nice.”

Wash eyes the bottle dubiously for a moment before slowly taking it. Donut doesn’t seem like he’s been poisoned, but there could be something in the wine that’s slow acting. Or there could be a tracker hidden in the bottle somewhere. Or--

He makes himself take a drink. It’s not terrible, and it’s definitely wine, though he has no idea what kind just from the taste. Wash has always been of the opinion that most wine all tastes the same, something North had chided him endlessly for on one occasion when he had managed to sneak some super fancy bottle onto the ship and Wash had said he didn’t see what the big deal was.

“Not bad,” he says, handing it back. “I’m not much of a wine person though.”

“That’s okay, it’s not for everyone. What do you like better? I can see if the boys can find me something else.”

Wash shakes his head, feeling his face heat up a little. “You don’t have to--that’s not what I meant. This is fine.”

Donut clicks his tongue and takes another sip of wine. “It’s no trouble, Tobin and Schooner are always finding interesting things on their supply runs. They like it when people put in requests, it gives them something to look for.”

“Well…” Wash still hesitates, face pink as he rubs at his neck. “I guess I sort of like fruity things? I’ve never really liked the taste of alcohol.”

With a little gasp, Donut presses a hand to his chest. “Me too! It’s so nice having someone who understands. Grif always has this whiskey that just smells like gasoline, I don’t know how he does it.”

“Right?” Wash finds himself nodding, understandingly. “York, one of the other guys in my old squad, he had this bottle of scotch I think it was. I could barely get it down, it was just so strong. They never let me live that one down.”

Donut scoffs and shakes his head. “I swear, if they’re drinking stuff like that, their tastebuds must have burnt off years ago. What’s wrong with having something that actually tastes nice?”

It’s easier to talk after that. They keep passing the bottle back and forth and Wash lets Donut take one of his hands to paint his nails blue. (“Blue for Blue Team, duh! Don’t tell Sarge I have this, he’ll make me throw it away.”) And then it only seems right to return the favor, painting Donut’s carefully maintained nails a bright shade of red before carefully adding tiny pink polka dots.

“Wow, Wash, where did you learn to do this?” Donut marvels over his left hand while Wash works on his right.

A faint smile slides onto his lips as he ducks his head sheepishly. “I uh… I’ve got a lot of sisters. Growing up it was pretty much, learn how to paint nails, or just sit in my room doing nothing on Saturday nights.”

They go back and forth, sharing stories that don’t get too deep until Sarge comes back in a strangely good mood and tells them all about the surgeries he assisted with. Wash meets Donut’s eyes and bites back a laugh as Sarge marvels at Dr. Grey’s work and Donut coos. It’s nice and strangely comfortable, although part of that might be the wine talking. Between the two of them, they make it most of the way through the bottle before Sarge demands the rest.

For once, Wash finds it’s not hard to get to sleep. He wakes up with a slight headache, but he’ll take that over nightmares any day.

* * *

Logically, Wash knows he can’t avoid Locus forever. But knowing that doesn’t mean that he can’t delay running into the merc again for as long as possible. Unfortunately, he’s gotten into a habit of finding a schedule and sticking to it. He sends messages to Doyle every morning, asking for word on his men, grabs breakfast with Donut and Sarge, and then heads off to train the troops.

Locus is there in the training room on day three. It’s impossible to read him with his helmet on, but Wash tries not to look at him much as he runs the Feds through their drills. He’s glad for the helmet hiding his own face when Locus casually moves to stand alongside him. The Feds are just going through basic warm ups. They don’t need him barking orders or offering advice, so there’s no easy escape.

“Your training seems to be paying off,” Locus says, voice even. “The Federal Army has been doing well in recent battles.”

Wash makes a vague noise and nods. There’s an angle here, there has to be. He yells for the Feds to pair up for sparring. Damn it, there’s an even number, so no one needs him to step in as their partner. Locus stays at his shoulder as he wanders through the pairs, correcting a stance here, breaking up an actual fight there.

Maybe the cadets can tell that he’s distracted and antsy, but they’re acting up more than usual. Locus hasn’t managed to say much more to him with how often he’s had to scream at them. Honestly, he almost forgets Locus is there until he tells the troops to hit the showers and heads over to clean up the equipment. He’s been trying to teach them hand to hand combat and basic knife skills, so, predictably, the room is littered with training knives because no one in this goddamn army can pick up after themselves.

“Agent Washington,” says the low voice behind him.

He huffs, trying not to react, glad his back is to Locus, his twitching hands hidden. “You’re still here?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Wash fights down a wince. Well… it’s not like he’s been particularly subtle about that.

Scooping up a few training blades, he eyes them critically, just to get a second to think. Probably better not to deny it. “So you picked up on that. Here I thought I wasn’t being obvious enough.”

There’s silence behind him as he turns one of the blades over in his hands frowning. Damn it, one of those idiots grabbed an actual knife. He’s going to have to figure out who and have a serious talk with them. It’s not a bad blade, he notes, testing the weight of it on his finger, seriously debating turning and throwing it at Locus.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” says Locus, voice low, right in Wash’s ear.

“Jesus Christ!” He jumps and fumbles the knife, catching it by the blade, grabbing it tight, the metal slicing straight through his glove and into his hand. Cursing, he tosses the blade away and presses down on the cut. It’s not big, but it feels deep, right into the meat of his palm.

“Are you alright, Agent Washington?”

There’s a hand reaching for him and he jerks away, awkwardly spinning out of Locus’ grasp. “Just fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “If there’s not something you need right this second, I think this can wait until I’ve been to the infirmary.”

“I… no. It was nothing of importance.” For a second, Wash is sure Locus’ shoulders slump a little, that there’s a hint of defeat in his voice. It doesn’t sound right and he doesn’t want to think about it, so he walks straight past Locus and out of the room.

It’s not his fault that Locus is obsessed with him or something. He didn’t ask for that, and he doesn’t want it. Maybe if Locus hadn’t attacked at the crash site, hadn’t come between Wash and his men--his team…

But it doesn’t matter.

He’s two buildings away from the training room before he realizes he hasn’t been paying any kind of attention to where he’s going. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever been in this part of the compound before. Wash vaguely remembers the tour Dr. Grey had given him weeks ago, but they must have moved things around since then.

“Agent Washington?”

The bright voice makes him turn, a rush of relief sweeping over him at the sight of white and purple armor. “Dr. Grey, I was just looking for you. Uh… I was headed for the infirmary, but I seem to have gotten a little turned around,” he says, sheepishly.

“Well, you found me! Did something happen?” From the tilt of her helmet, she’s giving him a once over. “Oh my, now what did you do to your hand?”

Wash winces and shrugs awkwardly, thinking fast. Because _‘Locus snuck up on me and I stabbed myself’_ sounds incredibly stupid in his head. “There was an incident after training. I was a little clumsy with what I thought was a training knife.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound particularly convinced, but she motions for him to show her his hand. Her fingers are careful and gentle as she pushes the torn glove away to get a look at the cut. “It doesn’t look too bad. I should have you patched up in a jiffy, come along. Infirmary’s this way.”

Dr. Grey walks extremely quickly. Wash nearly has to jog to keep up with her, his longer strides no match for her short, efficient steps. “It’s nice having you all back here. Things were getting so boring,” she says, sounding as though she’s smiling behind her helmet. “And it’s been so nice having another pair of hands around to help.”

“I was meaning to ask about that,” Wash says slowly. Sarge has been splitting his time between the armory and the infirmary. He keeps coming back to the room in red, blood covered scrubs. The other day he was fucking whistling. It’s not that it’s a bad thing seeing the man happy, it’s just… very, very strange. “So… you and Sarge--I don’t mean to pry--”

“Then don’t,” Dr. Grey says, voice cheery as ever as she looks up at him.

Wash winces and ducks his head. “Sorry.”

There’s a light nudge to his side. “That was a joke, Wash, just a little teasing. People do that sometimes. Anyway, the sergeant and I are just friends, but he’s been extremely helpful. I’ve never seen someone so eager to replace a limb.”

“And he’s… good at that?” He’s really, really trying to wrap his head around it, but Sarge and surgery sounds like the worst kind of combination.

“That he is! For someone without any professional medical training, it’s quite impressive. He even helped me on your surgery when they first brought you all in. Oh, here we are,” she says, pushing open the door to the infirmary. The room is fairly large, beds lining the walls, although most are, thankfully, unoccupied at the moment. It looks more like a repurposed cafeteria than a hospital, complete with a lingering smell of cheese for some reason.

“I actually wanted to ask you about that too,” he says as Dr. Grey motions for him to take a seat on the closest empty bed as she grabs a bottle of disinfectant.

“Glove off please.”

Wash bites at the inside of his cheek to hold back a wince as he tugs the glove away from his hand. It looks worse than it is, blood smeared all over his palm. Dr. Grey hums as she carefully cleans the wound. “Looks like it’s going to need a few stitches. What were you saying, Agent Washington?”

“It’s just--Donut told me that he and Sarge assisted with the operation. And it’s not that I don’t trust them.” Because he does, it’s a little frightening how much he does actually.

Dr. Grey seems to understand, nodding as she jabs his hand with something that’s probably an anesthetic judging by how his hand starts to feel after a moment. “It can be a little scary having someone else poke around inside you. But don’t you worry, Donut was mostly just holding tools and Sarge was guarding the door.”

Wash’s brow furrows and goosebumps rise on his arms. “Why was he doing that?”

“They were very concerned about Locus barging in--which did happen once before they got there,” she says casually, stitching up the cut. No matter how many times it’s happened, it’s still weird watching someone draw a needle through his skin. Better to focus on that than the chill going down his spine.

“Why was he trying to get in?” he asks, voice as even as he can make it, though there’s a slight hint of nerves there that he can’t stop.

Dr. Grey shrugs, apparently not noticing the shake to his voice. “I’m not sure, I didn’t care to ask. Personally, I don’t think a mercenary has any place in this war, and he certainly has no place in my operating room unless he’s the one on the table.”

There’s a strange rush of affection toward Dr. Grey at that. “Have you told General Doyle about your concerns?”

She hums as she carefully fixes a bandage into place. “I wouldn’t call them concerns exactly, but I have voiced my opinions. The general is convinced we need him. There you are. The stitches should be ready to come out in a few days.”

“Thank you, Dr. Grey.” He carefully slides his glove back into place, frowning at the tear, he’ll have to get Donut to fix that later.

“Of course. I’d say anytime, but I wouldn’t want to encourage you to end up here more than necessary.” And she reaches up to lightly tap his visor, just over where his nose would be.

Wash isn’t sure what to do with that. “Um, well if there’s anything I can do to help while we’re stationed here, let me know. I’d like to do whatever I can to be useful.”

She tips her head to one side and Wash vaguely wishes she wasn’t wearing her helmet so he could tell what her face is doing. “From what I’ve heard, it sounds as though you’re already doing that with the troops. It never hurts to have a few more people around to help, but I wouldn’t want to take you away from training. Unless… you don’t want to train them anymore?”

He shifts a little and shrugs. “I don’t mind training them, it’s just…”

Trailing off, his eyes flick to the doorway, almost as if expecting Locus to materialize there. Dr. Grey is definitely some sort of mind reader, because she gently taps at his wrist. “Why don’t you come into my office for a bit?”

Something about her tone tells him it’s not really a question, so he gets up and shuffles after her into the office, which… looks as though it used to be more of a closet until someone shoved a desk in there. Dr. Grey motions for him to take the chair on one side before she inches around the desk with as much dignity as possible. “Would you like some tea?”

“Uh.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer before pulling an already full and steaming electric kettle and then a full tea set from her desk. “I hope you like Earl Grey. It’s the only kind anyone ever seems to find on supply runs, or so they say. Cream and sugar?”

“Um, sure.” Wash wants to ask, so, so badly about a few things, but he’s pretty sure there’s no point. Maybe there’s a reason she and Sarge seem to be hitting it off so well. Her armor might be purple, but Dr. Grey seems like she’s made for the Red Team.

He idly picks at his gloves as she pours two cups of tea, adding a few heaping spoons of sugar to the one she slides across the table to him. Dr. Grey tugs off her helmet and sits back in her chair. Her hair is sleek and dark where it isn’t shot through with gray, tied back in a neat knot on top of her head. She has dark eyes and faint crow’s feet, the only sign of age on her face. It occurs to Wash that he has no idea how old she is, her voice sounds young, but, well, now that he thinks about it, maybe it would make more sense for her to be closer to Sarge’s age.

… However old he is. Wash should really figure that out at some point.

She’s looking at him expectantly and it takes Wash a second before he quickly fumbles his helmet off and sets it on the floor next to his seat, casting a glance back at the door. It’s shut tight and since the office definitely used to be a closet, there’s no windows for snipers to aim through.

They’re safe.

“So, Agent Washington, would you like to tell me what’s really bothering you?” Her tone is gentle, a slight smile on her lips as she sips at her tea.

He shifts a little, sitting up straight, but that feels too impersonal. They’re somewhere between acquaintances and friends. So Wash slouches a little and shrugs. “Not really, but I never like telling anyone about that. It’s… a few things.”

“Is Locus one of those things?”

Wash chokes on his tea as gracefully as possible. She’s definitely a mind reader. Coughing into his hand, he nods faintly. Dr. Grey’s brow furrows as she lets out a breath. “I expected as much. He seems, well… just a wee bit obsessed with you. I noticed when he first brought all of you in. I was hoping that once you were right as rain he might hover a little less. So much for that. Has he been causing you trouble?”

“Depends what you mean by trouble,” Wash says, once he’s able to talk again. She tips her head to one side, not filling the silence for him. He lets out a breath and stares into his cup. “I don’t want to bother you with my problems.”

“You know, generally, when someone invites you to talk about things, you’re not actually bothering them,” she says, her tone gentle. She’s smiling when he looks up at her, but there’s something a little sad there and he’s not sure why. “Now, I’m not going to make you talk about anything you don’t want to, but I hope you know that my door is always open for you. Buuuut, since we’re here and there’s still plenty of tea--what would you like to talk about?”

“Oh… well…”

It’s easier after that. Wash talks a bit about the troops, asks after a few who’s names he remembers. Not because he’s getting attached, but it’s just hard to forget a name once you’ve screamed it a hundred times. Dr. Grey isn’t fooled for a second, but she tells him what she can and offers a bit of gossip. She manages to make him laugh a few times and gets him to promise to stop by for tea again before he takes his leave.

And Wash finds he’s actually looking forward to it. So of course, the very next day, everything goes to shit. Well, almost everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Fed adventures! I'll be honest, when I started writing this, Donut was one of the hardest characters for me to get right, but I think he's one of my favorites now, so I'm so glad people liked the moment he and Wash had last chapter. Again thank you so much to everyone for the comments and kudos! Next time we've got the big reunion, so hopefully that'll be fun!


	7. Your Eyes Look Like Coming Home

The four of them all came to rescue them. It’s… actually not much of a surprise when he finally gets a second to think about it. There’s a warmth that flares in his chest that he really doesn’t have time to deal with as the mercs show their true colors and decimate the Feds. Wash has seen a lot of shit, but watching people literally disintegrate right in front of him is a new one.

As he stares up at Locus, he’s pretty sure that he won’t mind burning off the mark on his collarbone. But then Carolina appears to save the day and he can’t quite bring himself to be angry with her. Or Epsilon. Luckily Tucker seems to have that part covered. 

Besides it’s not like this is the first time he’s been left behind. 

It’s a relief for more than one reason that Dr. Grey manages to tag along. Wash doesn’t want to think about the rest of the Feds at the base. There’s nothing they can do for them now. At least that disintegration thing looks quick. 

Carolina explains that things are even more complicated than they thought, because of course they are. The more he learns about this planet the more Wash is pretty sure the universe just has it out for the whole damn place. There’s no simple answers, but they have to do something. It’s not as though he wants everyone on the planet dead, both sides in this civil war seem to have their ups and downs, but Wash can’t help thinking that just getting themselves out of the firing lines is most important. 

He has to put his team first. 

Caboose takes the news about Freckles much, much better than expected. Wash hesitates and then spreads his arms wide. There’s a soft intake of breath and he can practically see Caboose’s eyes light up behind his helmet before he’s wrapped up in a hug that squeezes the air out of his lungs. 

He wheezes a little and manages to work an arm around Caboose to awkwardly pat his back. “I missed you too, buddy.”

And when he says it out loud it hits how much he actually means it. There’s something strangely comforting about Caboose’s familiar babbling in his ear. Wash is a little sore when his feet finally find the ground again as Caboose goes off to play with Freckles. Whatever that means. 

A hand lands on his shoulder and he’s not entirely surprised to find Tucker next to him. “Please don’t hug me,” he says, voice a little strained because his ribs are definitely upset with him. “I don’t think I can take another one.”

Tucker snorts and lightly punches his shoulder. “Wasn’t gonna. Just wanted to make sure he didn’t break you or some shit. Need someone in one piece who knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

“I missed you too, Tucker.” Wash grins as Tucker thumps his shoulder again. 

“Dude, don’t make it weird.” But he can hear the laugh in Tucker’s voice and it’s hard to miss the way he stays close enough that their arms brush as Tucker shifts slightly to one side. “So you’re all okay? Like really okay? Not that ‘I’m gonna be all dramatic and hide my head injury for three days’ kind of okay.”

“It was two days, but yes, I think we’re all alright. Sarge and I were a little injured in the fight at the crash site, but we’ve both recovered since then.”

“Right, remind me to be mad at you about that later.”

Wash blinks, the genuine hurt in Tucker’s voice catching him by surprise. “I… alright.”

“Don’t have the energy to be pissed at you and Church at the same time.” And Tucker leans into Wash’s side a little. He hesitates, almost reaching to wrap an arm around him, but that would probably draw too much attention, and… he doesn’t exactly want Tucker to pull away. 

“I suppose that’s fair.” He pauses, trying to figure out what part Tucker’s mad at him for. Probably better not to ask. “What about you? You said before they made you all captains?”

Tucker scoffs and nods. “Yeah, pretty fucking stupid, right? Gave us all our own squads and everything.”

“How did they do? Your squads, I mean,” he says, watching Tucker carefully. Wash almost wishes he would take his helmet off so he could read his face. 

Shifting on the spot, Tucker shrugs, their shoulders brushing. “Dunno about the other guys, but I kinda fucked up. Got two guys killed trying to find you.”

“Oh.” There’s a weird mix of emotion at that. Guilt first, but then a strange rush of fondness. Tucker was looking for them, trying to track them down. “Tucker, I--”

“Don’t,” he says quickly. “Just… whatever you’re gonna say. Don’t.”

Tucker rubs at his visor like it’s his face and then shakes his head, posture shifting, straightening. “So… who’s your lady friend?” he asks, nodding at Dr. Grey. 

Wash glances over to where Dr. Grey stands with the Reds. Sarge seems to be introducing her to Grif and Simmons. A father bringing home a new step-mother. It’s eerie how easy that image is to see. He shakes himself a little. 

“Dr. Grey, she’s… a little odd, but she’s good company.”

“Did you bang her?”

“Jesus Christ.”

He can practically hear Tucker grinning as an elbow lightly digs into his side. “What? Just asking. She single? Cause I’ve got a couple things she could examine, if you know what I mean.”

Wash snorts and presses a hand to his visor. “I wish I didn’t. And I don’t know, but… I think she might be spoken for,” he says rather pointedly. “She says they’re just friends, but I think she and Sarge have been--uh, getting to know each other. And I think she’s a little old for you anyway.”

Tucker scoffs. “What are you, my mom? Everyone knows older chicks are even better in the sack, but… wait, you really think they’re doing it?”

“I have no idea, but that’s definitely not my business, or yours,” he adds, lightly nudging Tucker back. 

“How old is she? Wait--better question, how old do you think I am?”

“Uh.” Wash blinks at Tucker and tips his head to one side. He had read his file at one point, but that had been ages ago. With the way Tucker acts, he wants to guess young, but… he has been in the army for a while now. “Twenty-seven?”

“Twenty-eight,” he says, but he sounds almost impressed. Tucker leans away a little, crossing his arms over his chest. “How old are you?”

Sixty, answers one part of his head. But that’s not right. Twelve says another, but that’s not right either. His brow furrows a little. “Thirty-seven last time I checked.”

If Tucker notices that it took him a minute to remember, he doesn’t comment on it. “Really? Huh, always figured you were older. You’ve got that whole silver fox thing going on.”

“I have a what--huh?” Wash’s face is on fire and helmets suddenly seem like the best idea in the world. The ground is suddenly very interesting and he can feel the blush creeping down his neck. “That’s uh--um. What was that? I think I heard Carolina calling me.”

“No one said anything,” Tucker says, clearly trying not to laugh. Smartass. 

“Coming boss,” Wash says, picking a direction at random and striding off that way. Carolina’s probably around here somewhere. Or maybe he can find Caboose and have him use Freckles to just put him out of his misery somehow. Knowing Caboose, he’d find a way. 

And he’s just not going to think about the weird little fluttering feeling in his chest. Because it doesn’t matter, and Tucker’s clearly just messing with him and there’s a million other things to think about. 

* * *

Splitting up doesn’t feel right, but time is short and options are limited. The Reds are just going back to the crash site. They’ll be fine. It’s not like the mercs know exactly where it is and how to get there and a dozen places to set traps and they’ve had more than enough time to do just that in the last several weeks. 

Wash definitely isn’t fretting as they prepare to head off. 

“And you’ve all got extra ammo, just in case?”

Grif huffs, head tipping the way it always does when he’s rolling his eyes behind his helmet. “Yes,  _ mom _ . I’ve got it right--uh… shit. Simmons, did you see where I put my ammo?”

“Goddamn it, Grif, I gave it to you five seconds ago.”

“Yeah, so you should know where I put it. So irresponsible, Simmons.”

“How the fuck is it my fault?”

The bickering eases his nerves somehow. It’s familiar, comfortable. Some things never change. Simmons and Grif keep going back and forth as he turns to find Donut standing at his side. Funny how often he ends up there. 

“You’ll look out for them?” he asks, voice low. 

“Course I will! Double O Donut is on the job!” he says, patting Wash’s arm. He has no idea what that means, but Donut sounds sure of himself, so he just nods. “You take care of Caboose, okay? He promised me a sleepover once we’re somewhere we can actually have one.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him for you.” And Wash only hesitates for a moment before lightly bumping his shoulder against Donut’s before heading back over to his team. 

They’ll be alright. If he knows anything about Red Team, it’s that they’ve got a way of making it through anything. They take care of each other. Somehow, despite all logic and reason, they work. 

The mission doesn’t exactly go well and the pirate they bring back with them isn’t much help. Tucker takes off to sulk in the caves. Wash can’t exactly blame him. It’s a little odd, they’ve only been separated for a few weeks, but Tucker’s changed, even if he can’t see it. He’s trying, even if he seems to hate every it step of the way. Really, he doesn’t have much right to be proud, because Tucker would have gotten here without him one way or another, but Wash can’t quite snuff out that wonderful little warm feeling. 

Maybe because he doesn’t really want to. 

* * *

 

They’re being followed and it’s his fault. It’s an oversight and an obvious one and he hates himself for it. He hadn’t even thought twice before taking Freckles from Locus, the barest hint of a peace offering. Of course it was a trap. So much for his Freelancer paranoia keeping him out of trouble, apparently all that’s good for is keeping people at an arm’s length and never letting him stay in a room with an open window for more than three minutes. 

Carolina is pissed, and she has every right to be. Wash knows she’s not done screaming at him, but Epsilon and Tucker cut in and he doesn’t know how to feel. They had their reasons for leaving, he’s always known that, but he can’t help feeling for Tucker. The Reds and Blues aren’t so accustomed to being abandoned. They stick together. They’re not just a team. 

Wash trails after Carolina, circling the perimeter with her in silence. She has more to say, her shoulders are hunched, stiff, ready for a fight. So maybe he should stop it before it starts. 

“I know I fucked up,” he says as Carolina speaks at the same time. 

“I’m sorry.”

He blinks and turns to stare at the side of her helmet, because she won’t look at him. Or maybe she can’t. “What?”

She’s still tense, her fingers twitching where she holds her gun. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you in front of them. You should have checked the drive, but… you were trying to do what you thought was best for your team.”

Wash shakes his head. “No, I… that wasn’t about the team. Not all of them--just Caboose. He…” Epsilon’s floating figure isn’t around, but Wash knows he’s listening, he always is. And for an instant, Wash wants to scream, to tell him just what he left behind, how bad it was. But he doesn’t. That’s not his argument to have. 

And if he starts screaming at Epsilon, he might never stop. 

“I just wanted him to have his friend back--or his pet. I don’t really know what he thinks Freckles is at this point, but I know it--he meant a lot to Caboose. So no, I wasn’t thinking about the team. I already killed Caboose’s best friend once, I didn’t want him to lose another. It was selfish and stupid, and I’ll own that.” 

“Wash…” 

They’ve both stopped, Carolina a few steps back. Slowly, he turns, looking at her over his shoulder. “What I don’t understand is why you’re making excuses for me.”

She says nothing for a few long moments, turning to look out into the distance. There’s not much to see from here. Nothing but the places the war has worn away at the world. 

“I left you behind. Again.”

“You had your reasons--”

“If I don’t get to make excuses for you, you sure as hell don’t get to make them for me,” she says, the sharpness in her voice catching him by surprise. Because it’s not directed at him. Carolina exhales shakily and he takes a tentative step closer. 

“Having reasons doesn’t change the fact that I left you. I… when I came back before, I tried to make things go back to how they had been before, with us. It was easier to act like--even with everything else--we were still the same.” She laughs and it’s hollow and horrible. “But we weren’t. I just didn’t want to see it. I keep forgetting you’re not that anxious rookie who needs me to pull him along when he gets scared anymore.”

There’s a lump in his throat and he can’t quite force it down. Slowly, he steps up next to her, looking out at the wasteland. “I think I wanted to go back to that too. I’m not a leader. I never wanted to be, so when you showed up again… letting you take charge and make the hard calls, it was easy. We’ve both changed, Carolina. It’s going to take some time to figure out where we fit.”

He risks a glance and finds her staring at him. “What?” he asks, vaguely wondering if he’s made an ass of himself. 

“Why aren’t you angry with me?”

One eyebrow rising, Wash tips his head slightly to one side. “Do you want me to be?”

Carolina shrugs. “A little. Tucker’s pissed because he’s hurt and he missed his friend and--” 

She cuts herself off and turns away. Wash’s eyes go wide. “Carolina--”

“Never mind. That’s not what I meant--”

“I missed you,” he says, not letting her get another word out. “Of course I did.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t leave. So he keeps going. 

“I asked about you,” he says slowly. “When… when my head was together enough to remember you. They told me you went over the cliff and I didn’t understand. Because it didn’t make sense. You couldn’t be dead. I knew they had to be wrong and you’d find a way back up and… and that you’d come and save me.”

Now he can’t look at her, so he fiddles with his gun. “I wasn’t just angry, Carolina. When you left me--when all of you left, I knew you had reasons, but I  _ hated _ you for that. I didn’t understand how you could just forget about me.”

“I didn’t--”

“I know.” It comes out harsher, sharper than he means it and he winces, ducking his head a little. “I know that now. Freelancer broke all of us. And looking back… if you had come for me, I don’t know what you would have found. I needed to put myself back together away from the project.”

“You know,” she says, and he looks up, finding her moving back toward him. “I think you’ve done a pretty good job with that. What I was saying before--it’s not a bad thing you’re not that rookie anymore. And you might hate it, but you’ve done a damn good job leading the guys.”

He snorts. “You say that now.”

“Hey, they’re all still alive, I think that’s a pretty big accomplishment.” She’s teasing. It’s nice hearing that smile back in her voice. 

“You’ve got to give them some credit. You know, they’re your team too now,” he says, giving her a gentle nudge. There’s only a faint hesitation before she lightly bumps him back. 

After a moment, he turns away, going back to checking the perimeter. But they’re not quite done. “I am sorry, Wash,” she says.

Pausing, he looks back, question on his lips, but she beats him there. “For leaving. I don’t regret going to investigate things when we did, but… I should have at least said something.”

He feels himself smile as he shrugs. “It’s alright. I know how you feel about goodbyes.”

* * *

Tucker and Epsilon patch things up and it’s a little awkward, but Wash is pretty sure there’s no other way things go with those two. Plenty of emotionally stunted people working things out today. Next, he’s pretty sure Grif and Simmons are finally going to admit their feelings for each other. 

But Felix interrupts the bizarrely nice moment. Of course he does. 

The ship sounds too good to be true, but Wash knows Locus, or he sort of does. Enough for him to at least believe there’s a chance it’s not a trap. All of the options are terrible, but he has an idea. Between the two--well three of them, he’s pretty sure he and Carolina and Epsilon could handle the mercenaries. They probably won’t make it off the planet, but if the rest of them do then maybe it’ll be alright. There’s about a million ways it could go wrong, and if the ship is a trap, then the whole thing is pointless anyway. 

Dr. Grey says her piece and Wash is going to make her get on that damn ship with the rest of them. 

The silence is suffocating. The guys don’t need to take off their helmets for Wash to know what their faces are doing. After a minute that feels like an hour, Tucker shakes his head. “That’s bullshit.”

Wash sighs. “Tucker--”

“No! We’re not leaving you behind, and we’re not getting on that fucking ship. Look, I know we’re a bunch of fuck ups, but you can’t just get rid of us.”

“That’s not what we’re doing,” Carolina says, her voice more gentle than Wash has heard it in ages. 

“That’s exactly what you’re doing! And it’s fucked!” Tucker’s slung his gun over his shoulder, freeing his hands so he can jab an accusing finger Wash’s way. “Cut this martyr crap. I get that shit looks bad, but we can’t just give up! We can do this, just… I’ve got an idea, alright?”

Wash meets Carolina’s glance. They can’t. Tucker’s come a long way, but there’s no way any plan is getting all of them out of this. She gives a slight nod before he can speak, apparently taking something very different from their shared look. “Fine, let’s hear it.”

Tucker seems a little taken aback, but he starts talking. 

The plan isn’t terrible, but there’s so many moving pieces. If any of it goes wrong, it all falls apart and everyone dies. And it all rests on Felix’s ego overriding common sense and his bloodlust. Wash hates it, but when Tucker turns to him expectantly, he nods. They’re hammering out the details and Dr. Grey and Sarge are working on the Freckles situation and Wash can’t breathe, so he quietly steps away, heading into one of the caves. 

It’s not going to work. He closes his eyes and leans against one of the cave walls. Felix will cut Tucker down and then go for the rest of them. And Locus will make him watch. 

“Wash? The fuck are you doing in here?” 

He blinks and forces himself to breathe as Tucker approaches. “Carolina and I are going over shit again and--you okay?”

“Tucker, I…” Wash takes a breath and pushes himself off the wall. “I don’t know about this.”

“Dude--”

“You don’t all need to be there. If some of you just went for the ship--”

“Fuck that!” Tucker’s definitely glaring at him behind his helmet as he crosses his arms over his chest. “What the hell, Wash? I’ve got this shit all worked out.”

“I know, and it’s not a bad plan, but you’re putting yourself at too much of a risk. Carolina or I should be the one to bait Felix.”

There’s a huff, and the faint motion that means Tucker’s rolling his eyes. “Yeah no, that’s not gonna work. I know Felix, okay? I can get him talking. It’ll be easy.”

“But what if it’s not?”

“Dude, stop! You’re freaking out over nothing--”

“I’m not freaking out,” he says, carefully keeping his voice even and out of screeching range. “But it’s not nothing. You could die--all of you could die.”

“And that’s not gonna happen with your fucking shit plan? Leave you and Carolina to play heroes while we get on a ship that’s probably gonna blow up? Yeah, no fucking thanks,” he snaps. 

“We wouldn’t play hero--and you’d all at least have a chance that way--”

“Oh fuck you.” And Tucker steps forward and shoves at him. Wash stumbles a little, catching himself with a hand on the wall. “So my plan’s already a fucking failure? I bet if Carolina had come up with it, you’d be all for it.”

“No--that’s not the problem. You’re being irrational.”

“And you’re being a dick! I thought you trusted me!”

“I do!” Wash steps closer without meaning to, hands rising up before he can stop them. 

“Then why don’t you fucking act like it?” Tucker looks ready to hit him and Wash almost wants him to. Because he can feel his face going warm as anger licks at his insides, because Tucker doesn’t get it and he’s not listening. 

“You don’t understand,” he snarls, turning away. “If we do this, even if we get a message out--you  _ will _ die.”

“So what? Better a couple of us bite it than this whole fucking planet.”

Wash’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “Fuck the planet. It doesn’t matter.”

His words seem to echo around them for a moment. 

“What the hell, Wash?” And Tucker sounds honestly shocked and he’s not sure how to take that. “We can’t just let all of them die!”

“Why not?” The words are cold and bitten out. “They’ve already done a damn good job of killing themselves.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tucker almost screams out the words. “So--so what? You’re fine with letting a whole planet bite it so we can save our asses?”

“Yes, I am!”

“You’re so full of shit!” And Tucker’s right, but that doesn’t matter. Tucker yanks at his arm, turning him halfway around to jab a finger at his chest plate. “I know you, Wash. You let this planet die and you’re gonna fucking hate yourself--y’know, more than usual.”

He shrugs out of Tucker’s grip and turns away again. “I can live with that.”

Tucker makes a frustrated noise behind him. “I don’t fucking get you! Why can’t you even give this a chance?”

Wash snaps and rounds on him, gripping Tucker’s shoulders tightly. “Because I can’t risk losing you!” 

For once, Tucker seems to be speechless. Wash gives him a little shake, because it has to get through his head. “I can’t lose you, Tucker. Any of you. I’d let this planet and a hundred others die if it meant you and the others got to live.”

It’s beyond selfish and terrible, but he means every word. His breath is coming sharp and uneven as he loosens his grip and lets his hands drop. Oh god. He’s not supposed to touch, not supposed to break. Wrapping his arms around his stomach, he takes a shaky step back and turns away. Too much, way too much. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

“I can’t,” he says, because it’s too late and there’s no going back, and his voice is weak and broken as he shakes his head. His fingers itch and his eyes burn. He’s pathetic. 

Tucker’s hand goes to his arm and tugs gently. “Wash, dude, c’mon--look at me.”

Slowly, he lets Tucker pull him around and barely flinches when he reaches up to remove his helmet. Wash stares at the cave floor, because he knows he looks like a fucking wreck. It occurs to him then, for some reason, that Tucker hasn’t seen his face since before they were separated, back at the crash site. The bags under his eyes have to be even worse, and his hallowed cheeks are flushed and burning. 

There’s a soft hiss and click as Tucker pulls off his own helmet. His gloves are still on though when he reaches up and gently cups Wash’s jaw with both hands, carefully turning his face until their eyes meet. His expression is hard to read, but there’s something unbearably soft about the way he’s looking at him. Tucker’s got bags under his eyes now too, there’s a new scar high on his forehead that Wash doesn’t remember, and his dreads are carefully tied back behind his head. He’s beautiful and Wash is a goddamn mess. 

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” he says, thumbs moving gently over Wash’s face, tracing the hard lines of his cheekbones. “We can do this.  _ I _ can do this. You’re not gonna lose anyone, you drama queen.”

It’s the fondness and certainty in his tone that makes Wash lean ever so slightly into the touch, eyes half shut. “You don’t know that,” he says faintly.

“Yeah, I kinda do.” And he says it so matter of factly that Wash wants to believe him. Slowly, his hands come up, gently curling around Tucker’s wrists as he leans forward a little more, closing his eyes as he presses their foreheads together. He half hears a tiny gasp from Tucker, but he can’t be certain he’s not imagining it. 

“How can you just be sure?”

“Cause you’re gonna have my back, dude. And Carolina’s gonna have yours, and Sarge’ll have hers and all that shit. We’re a team, and we kick ass. It’s not that complicated. I know we screw around, but… we’re gonna do this. We have to.”

“But--”

“Shut your bitch mouth before I shut it for you.” Tucker’s nose nudges gently against his and his breath hitches because he doesn’t know what that means. But he knows what it sounds like. 

They’re too close. This is too much. But Wash can’t make himself pull away. 

“You trust me, right?”

The answer is automatic. “Of course I do.” 

“Then let me do what you keep fucking telling me and try for once.” Tucker pulls away just a little, hands sliding the slightest bit lower, thumb sweeping over Wash’s thrumming pulse making it jump. 

He opens his eyes, finding Tucker’s, warm and deep and brown, bright and shining even with the dark shadows underneath. Letting out a slow breath, Wash nods and swallows thickly, because Tucker has him wrapped so tight around his finger. His eyes sweep over familiar features trying to memorize everything, lingering on the small scar going through one brow, full lips chapped and bitten, and the soft rise of a nose that’s been broken at least three times. Maybe it’ll be alright if he doesn’t make it out of this, because he’s already fucked. 

Tucker’s hand moves to his hair and Wash lets his head fall to rest on Tucker’s shoulder. They stay like that for far too long and not nearly long enough before Carolina’s voice echoes through the cave and they spring apart, the moment broken as they shove their helmets back on. He tries not to think about the way Tucker automatically reaches for him, wrapping a hand around his wrist, and how he doesn’t let go until they’re back out in the open, standing shoulder to shoulder with Sarge and Donut as they put the final details into place. It’s not going to work, because it can’t. But maybe dying with his team won’t be so bad. 

* * *

Wash deals with Locus. He insists on it. If Tucker knows Felix and how to get under his skin, it only seems fair that he do the same. They don’t have a connection, but he can push the merc’s buttons long enough to keep him distracted. It’s not a fight that he’s supposed to win, but if there’s one thing Wash’s always been good at it’s taking a beating. 

Locus catches him in the side with a brutal tackle and Wash’s lips curl up, because he knows he’s got him. He throws his arms up, blocking the blows meant for his head, fists driving the wind out of him instead. Wash shifts, half rolling to one side, grabbing for his pistol. 

He fires two shots into open air, Locus already up and moving off him, letting him roll to his feet. A sharp kick sends the pistol flying, but he hardly needs it. Wash ducks the blow aimed for his head and bull rushes Locus, catching him in the middle and slamming him back into one of the massive generators. There’s a rough gasp from Locus, but he recovers quick. Gloves curl into the grate behind him, lifting Locus up, his feet catching Wash sharply in the sternum. 

Staggering back, he clutches at his chest. Fuck, alright his ribs are definitely bruised. He can take a beating, but he can’t keep this up forever. 

“You could have been one of us, Agent Washington,” Locus snarls, stalking closer. At least he’s not bothering with the cloaking anymore. “If you had only listened to me, we would have spared you. You would have been an asset.”

Wash barks out a laugh as he forces himself upright. “As what? Another contract killer? I’m not interested in being a gun for hire. You say you want to understand me, but you don’t. You act like Felix is the one that talks too much, but all you’ve ever done is talk at me--you just want me to understand you. And that’s never going to happen.”

Locus charges again, and there’s nowhere to go, so Wash braces for the hit. His back hits the ground and air leaves him in a rush. Fists together, Locus brings his hands down and Wash chokes out a gasp as something snaps. 

Well shit. 

There’s no time to move before Locus is on top of him, hands going around his throat and squeezing. Wash grabs at his wrists, but there’s no give. “You know nothing,” Locus says, spitting out the words. “And now you will die, with these people--these  _ insects _ . Look how far you’ve fallen.”

Wash chokes and sputters and there’s blood on his lips and the world’s starting to spin. But Locus doesn’t let up. “You chose this, Agent Washington. You were once a great soldier and you’ve thrown it all away--”

There’s still a few more tricks of his sleeve. Or, more accurately, a knife tucked under his chest plate. Wash yanks it free and metal flashes as he slashes across Locus’s middle. The hands finally loosen and he sucks in a great gulp of air, vision clearing. He moves, curling his legs up and then kicking out, both feet catching Locus in the middle, sending him flying back. 

Rolling to his feet, he gets up and steadies himself. Wash looks over just in time to see Locus’ flicker out of view. “Damn it.”

He can’t stop moving. Turning, he looks this way and that, watching for the subtle signs of movement. For a second, it seems like he’s gone, the distraction failed. 

But then comes the rough snarl, any hint of calm long gone. “ _ Why _ ? How can you throw all of it away? All you worked for--all you’ve accomplished?”

Wash laughs again, raspy and coated in blood. “You really don’t know anything about me. If you did, you’d know by now--I’ve always been a terrible soldier. I’m more like these insects than you can imagine.”

There’s a brutal blow to his shoulder, a horrible crack echoing in his ears, pain shooting down his arm, the knife flying from his hand. An arm locks around his neck as Locus traps Wash back against his chest. “Then you will die like one of them,” says the low growl in his ear.

He kicks at Locus, and there’s a hiss, but the hold doesn’t falter. Wash has another knife left, but the same trick can’t work twice. But there’s not a lot of choices. “If you were going to kill me, you would’ve done it,” he rasps out, head tilted back, fighting and shifting against the hold. “So much for following your orders.”

There’s a crackle of static from his radio and Wash grins as Felix’s voice starts playing. They did it. Tucker’s plan actually worked. 

Locus is frozen behind him, so Wash moves, pulling the knife from his hip and jabbing it into Locus’ side. There’s a sharp pained gasp as he’s released. But then there’s a rough kick to his back and a jab between his shoulders that send him face forward onto the ground, head cracking against the rocks. His own blade drives into his shoulder and twists, but then footsteps move away. The world is shifting and fading and there’s familiar voices on his radio. 

_ “Fuck yeah, suck it pirate pricks!” _

_ “Excellent work, men, commendations all around--” _

_ “Wash, report, where are you? Do you have eyes on Locus?” _

He blinks, trying to focus on Carolina’s voice. Making words is difficult, so he just gurgles. And coughs up more blood. 

_ “Wash? Wash where are you? Does anyone see him?” _

_ “I’ve got him! Ooh, his ass got pounded--” _

Two sets of footsteps approach and someone rolls him onto his side, gentle hands fluttering over him. There’s a pink blur and a brown blur. “He’s with me and Lopez--someone get over here, he’s looking bad. Wash, hey stay with me.”

Wash tries to nod, it’s the most he can do, words stopping in his throat as the world fades away. They did it. The plan worked. He wonders, vaguely as everything goes dark, why he doesn’t hear Tucker’s voice on the radio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's been leaving kudos and comments!!! The response this fic is getting never ceases to amaze me. So this is a chapter I've been excited to get to for a while, so I really hope you guys like it! After this point, things are going to take a pretty big right turn from canon, so I hope everyone's ready for that, we've still got a loooong way to go~


	8. Now Capture It, Remember It

The New Republic headquarters doesn’t have the most high tech infirmary. 

Wash wakes up slowly, blinking at a water stained ceiling. There’s soft beeping of medical equipment all around him. Turning his head hurts, his neck aching with even the tiny motion. The room is rather cramped. It looks as though they tried to shove in as much equipment and as many beds as possible. 

There’s a soft snuffling next to him and he’s vaguely aware that someone’s holding onto his wrist and there’s a familiar warmth at his knee. Shifting, he glances over. Tucker’s in one of two chairs that’s crammed in next to his bed, Wash’s hand on his lap, fingers curled tight around his wrist even as his head lolls to one side, dreads spilling over his shoulders. Donut’s in the other chair, slumped over onto the bed, hand curled around his knee. 

“Good morning, Wash.” Dr. Grey’s voice is soft as she approaches, carefully working her way past large, beeping machines and his IV stand to get around to his other side. She presses a finger to her lips and nods at the other two. “They’ve been here a while, let them sleep. Not that you should really be talking anyway. Locus really did a number on your larynx. And your ribs, and your shoulder. I think I’m going to have to strongly object to plans where you distract someone by letting them clobber you in the future.”

“That’s fair,” he says, and his voice really does sound terrible, raspy and weak. “How long was I out?”

“Just a few days, but you’re not getting out of that bed until I say so.” From her tone, Wash doesn’t really want to know what would happen if he tried. 

He glances over at the other two. Tucker’s in hospital scrubs and there’s a bandage around Donut’s wrist. “How’s everyone else?”

“You and Tucker got the worst of it. He just woke up yesterday, he has quite a nasty stab wound, and it doesn’t help that he keeps getting out of bed,” she says, but there’s a slight fondness under the irritation in her tone. “Donut’s alright, just a little banged up. Sarge had a few bruised ribs and Carolina opened up her leg wound again, but they’re both just fine now. All of you just need a little time to rest.”

“Thank you, Dr. Grey,” he says, and he hesitates for a second before reaching up. She meets him halfway, gently squeezing his hand. The corners of her eyes crinkle and she carefully adjusts his pillows and then smooths the hair back from his forehead. 

“Thank you, Wash. And please, call me Emily. Now no more talking, you need your rest.”

“But--”

“Shh!”

She lightly pats his shoulder and then winds her way through a forest of equipment. A few of the other beds are taken and he’s not sure what that means. Their plan worked, didn’t it? She would have said something if it didn’t. Wash shifts a little, eyes flicking over Tucker and Donut, a distinct warmth flaring in his chest that has nothing to do with his aching ribs. 

He lets his eyes fall shut. Finding out just what happened can wait a little while longer. 

* * *

Over the next few days, Wash has a nearly constant stream of visitors who make Dr. Grey’s voice get higher and dangerously sweet as they push that ‘no talking’ rule he’s supposed to be following. Tucker’s in the bed next to him and keeps plotting out escape attempts between telling Wash about the rebels and the fight with Felix. 

“I mean, okay, it wasn’t like really a fight, cause if it was, I would have kicked that douche’s ass--but y’know, with the plan, I just had to keep him talking. You should’ve seen me, dude, I was like, swish, roll, stab,” Tucker says, acting out parts of the fight from his seat at Wash’s side. 

“You left out the part where you fell over and he kicked you,” offers Caboose, who’s taken up a semi permanent place at the end of Wash’s bed. Epsilon snickers where he floats on top of the helmet in Caboose’s lap. Why he’s there, Wash isn’t sure. Maybe he wants to check up on Tucker. He can’t exactly begrudge Epsilon that. 

“Seriously, Tucker, it wasn’t much of a fight. Pretty sure he would’ve just handed your ass to you no matter what happened.”

Tucker huffs and rolls his eyes. “Not if that wasn’t the plan. C’mon, back me up here, Wash.”

“I’m sure you would’ve done fine,” he says, trying to keep the gravel out of his voice. “I’m proud of you.”

Nose scrunched up, Tucker makes a face and lightly punches Wash’s arm. “Dude, why do you always hafta make it weird?”

Wash laughs, or tries to. It turns into a cough and he waves a hand lightly when Tucker and Caboose both look at him with alarm, the latter half rising from his seat, Epsilon flickering in and out at his shoulder. 

“Should I get the scary doctor?” he asks, gripping at his helmet.

“I’m fine, Caboose. Laughing just hurts a little right now, don’t worry.”

“Right, not like that’s anything serious,” Tucker says, sounding strangely irritated. But he just reaches past Wash and carefully adjusts his pillows a little. He stays there most of the day even after Dr. Grey finally shoos Caboose away to get some food. 

Grif and Simmons come by later, sneaking in a few slices of cake from the mess hall. The infirmary is as crowded as ever, so Wash has to scoot over a little so Tucker can sit in the bed next to him, leaving the chairs open for Grif and Simmons. Apparently there’s a much better medical facility at the capital, where they should be moving eventually, if Kimball and Doyle can ever work out anything. 

Tucker groans and leans back against the pillows as he takes a bite of cake, his arm brushing Wash’s. “Fuuuuck, why weren’t they serving this shit before?”

“Didn’t have it,” Grif says, half muffled by his own mouthful. “Apparently the Feds were keeping all the good shit. Or at least the people who actually know how to cook worth a damn. Heard from Bitters that a couple dudes Doyle brought with him lost their shit when they saw what was in the mess hall and just took over.”

Wash blinks in surprise. “And the rebels let them?”

“Must have,” Simmons says, shrugging. 

“Probably bribed ‘em with some of this cake.” Grif’s already finished his slice and tries to sneak his fork over to Simmons’ plate. Simmons smacks his hand away and Grif pouts. “Well, I’m sure as hell not complaining about it. The food here sucks. How come you never said you were getting all the good stuff with the Feds?”

“I mostly stuck to MREs,” Wash says, instead of the obvious answer that there were a few others things that seemed a little more important than the quality of food at the Federal Army bases. “The mess hall was always too crowded.”

Grif and Simmons exchange a look and shake their heads. “You and your Freelancer paranoia. One of these days, you’ve gotta learn to relax, Wash.”

Simmons snorts. “Of course you’d say that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

There’s a soft sigh from Tucker, and Wash glances down as he leans against his shoulder. “They’re never gonna stop now. Look what you started?”

“Me? What did I do?”

“You gave them an inch,” Tucker says, sneaking a bite of Wash’s cake. He hums and then his brow furrows. “What the fuck? Why’d you get chocolate? You fuckers said they were out!”

“I said they were almost out, there was one piece left,” Simmons corrects, looking strangely proud of himself, for some reason. 

Wash blinks at the cake and takes a bite. It’s… really nice actually. Soft and sweet and unmistakably chocolate. He hasn’t had anything like this in years. While Tucker’s busy snapping at Simmons, he covertly steals a bit of his. It’s good too, but Wash’s is definitely better. 

“How’d you know I liked chocolate?” The question makes the others fall silent, all three turning to look at him. 

There’s a faint flush to Simmons’ face for some reason as he rubs at the back of his neck and shrugs. Grif just rolls his mismatched eyes. “Everyone likes chocolate, dude. And you might act like it, but we know you’re not actually a robot.”

“Donut told us,” Simmons blurts out. He shifts in his seat and adjusts the glasses balanced on his long, thin nose. “He uh, he said he used to give you some from his stash whenever you got extra bitchy.”

Wash’s brow furrows. He’s almost certain that’s not how Donut would have put it, but… he does remember him casually offering chocolate on the bad days. There had been a lot of those. At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it, but all of that couldn’t have been easy to get. 

He lets his mind wander, idly listening at the other three start chattering again, casually arguing about one thing or another. It’s comforting, Tucker pressed against his side, Grif and Simmons sniping at each other as he finishes off the last of the chocolate cake that they grabbed specifically for him. 

* * *

Dr. Grey finally lets him and Tucker out of the infirmary the next day, with strict orders to avoid any strenuous activities, and an agreement from Wash to continue running the healing unit until she tells him otherwise. The New Republic headquarters isn’t much, but Tucker insists on giving him the grand tour. For some reason, he seems very resistant to the idea of leaving Wash’s side, which… he doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have someone to lean on quite literally when he needs to catch his breath. 

“You sure you’re good to be out of there?” Tucker asks warily, watching him closely as Wash wheezes and nods. His ribs are still in a bunch of pieces, but they’re slowly sticking themselves back together. It’s not a pleasant feeling, but it means the healing unit is working the way it should. 

“I’m alright, this is better.” At least his voice is back to normal. “I don’t like hospitals. So, where were we going?”

Tucker doesn’t seem convinced, but it’s harder to read him with his helmet in the way. Being in full armor again is something of a relief, particularly with Feds and rebels all over the base, still itching for a fight. They’ve already broken up two since leaving the infirmary. There’s far too many of them all crammed into the base. 

The rebels seem to flock to Tucker, looking at him adoringly. And, well, alright, Wash can’t really blame them for that. But that’s another matter and not one he needs to deal with at the moment. For some reason, Tucker is almost embarrassed by the attention, shooting side long glances at Wash and shooing them all away as quickly as possible.

Leading the way, Tucker rounds the corner toward the motorpool and groans. Turning on his heel, he lightly pushes at Wash’s shoulders. “Never mind, let’s go back the other way--”

“Captain Tucker!”

Groaning, Tucker’s head droops. Wash leans slightly to one side, looking past him. There’s two rebels working on a warthog, a young woman with maroon accented armor wheeling herself out from under it on what looks like a regular old skateboard, and a young man, very, very young, with a curly cloud of dark hair and a bright smile, the accents of his armor matching Tucker’s. The boy is waving them over. 

With the utmost reluctance, Tucker turns and heads over, tugging Wash along by his elbow. “The hell are you two doing here? Thought you had training now?”

“No one’s training anymore,” says the girl, sitting up. She’s got thick glasses and braces and almost more freckles than Wash, her auburn hair tied back in a tight ponytail. “It’s kinda awkward with all the Feds here, y’know?”

“Right, guess that makes sense.” Tucker glances at him and lets out a breath. “Wash, this is Jensen and Palomo. Guys, this is Agent Washington--don’t you fucking embarrass me, Palomo, I swear to god.”

Wash has no idea what that last part means, one eyebrow rising. He’s pretty sure he’s seen Tucker at some of his most embarrassing moments. There’s not a moment to ask as both rebels scramble to their feet in an instant and offer him a salute. “Uh, at ease, soldiers.”

Jensen offers her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Washington. I’m Katie Jensen, Captain Simmons’ lieutenant. The captains have told us so many stories about you. Is it true Captain Grif once ran you down with a warthog and you climbed back on top of it while it was moving with a gun in each hand?”

“Uh.” He glances at Tucker, who definitely seems to be staring. Has he heard that story? Wash can’t remember. He clears his throat and firmly shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jensen. And that… that did happen. But that was a long time ago.”

“So badass,” she mutters, with a notable lisp, her hand falling back to her side. 

The other rebel gently nudges her out of the way and offers his own hand. “Private Charles Palomo--last surviving member of Captain Tucker’s squad. He’s told me all about you.”

Wash feels his eyebrows rising, curiosity tugging at him as he shakes Palomo’s hand. “Has he?”

Tucker groans and lets his head fall into his hands. “I fucking hate you, Palomo.”

“That’s fair, sir,” Palomo says, still bright and cheery. 

“So,” Wash says, glancing between Tucker and Palomo, unable to stop the corner of his lips from turning up. “What exactly has Captain Tucker told you about me?”

“Why do you hate me?” Tucker asks, sounding deeply betrayed.

“I’m just curious.” He tries for innocent, but his tone doesn’t quite get there. 

Palomo taps at his chin, thinking. “Oh man, lots of stuff. Uh, it was mostly while we were training. He’d show us all these drills you showed him and then call us idiots and losers and that you’d never approve and if you were there you’d make us run a hundred laps around the whole base. Oh, and there was this time when we were training with the super awesome squad that was supposed to go and rescue you from the Feds where--”

“Wait, special squad?” Wash blinks, tipping his head to one side in slight confusion. Tucker groans again. 

“Yeah! Me and Jensen were both on it. All the captains picked their most trusted squad member to train for the rescue mission. Tucker was in charge of the whole thing.”

“Was he really?” Wash can’t stop himself grinning and he’s not quite sure why.

“Oh yeah, he had to fight soooo hard to get Kimball to let him do it. He was pulling all this ninja stuff, figuring out where you guys were and standing up to Felix and the general and everything. It was awesome!”

“It was pretty cool,” Jensen agrees, nodding her approval. 

“Okay, okay, enough. Wash let’s go just--anywhere else, I don’t care.” And Tucker’s grabbing his arm, dragging out of the room. 

“Tucker, what? Uh--it was nice meeting you,” he calls back to the rebels, who both wave at them until they round the corner. Tucker just keeps pulling him along, stopping when they get to a quiet, empty hallway that seems to be a good ways away from anything or anyone else. “What was that about, Tucker?”

Groaning again, Tucker presses his back to the wall and sinks down against it. Wash hesitates for a moment before sitting down next to him. Tucker tugs off his helmet and sets it in his lap, Wash mirrors him. It only seems fair. 

“All that stuff Palomo was saying--I dunno, it just bugged me.”

Wash runs over the conversation in his head, brow furrowing. “Why? He didn’t say anything bad. It sounds like he really looks up to you, actually.”

Tucker huffs and leans his head back against the wall. “That’s the fucking problem. It… it wasn’t like he said, okay? I wasn’t cool or badass when I was doing that shit. I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing. We didn’t take the squad when we came to get you cause I didn’t wanna get anymore of those kids killed.”

“Tucker--”

“If you’re gonna apologize, I’m gonna punch you.” Tucker drags a hand through his dreads, pulling the tie loose, letting them fall around his shoulders. “Look, when you were gone, things sucked, okay? I’m still kinda pissed at that crap you pulled, but… fuck, I don’t wanna be mad at you for that anymore, cause like, I get why you did it, but it still sucked. And then we had no idea what they were doing to you and--it fucked me up, okay? And it’s stupid cause they weren’t even doing anything!”

Tucker leans forward, curling in on himself, head resting on his knees, hands fisted in his hair. For a long moment, Wash says nothing, but he knows he should. Slowly, he rests his hand on Tucker’s back. He can probably barely feel it with the armor, damn it. Wash isn’t good at this, he’s not supposed to reach out. But he has to do something. 

Shifting a little closer, he wraps an arm around Tucker a little awkwardly and gives him a gentle tug. Tucker moves with it, leaning into him. It’s not particularly comfortable. There’s too many hard edges and pointy corners with the armor, but Tucker settles against him, head resting on his shoulder. Wash needs to do something with his hand and letting it settle at Tucker’s waist is way too dangerous, so he just runs gloved fingers gently through his hair. 

He notices, idly, that Tucker’s got little beads in his hair carefully woven into the dreads. There’s not really a pattern to them, but their colors are very familiar. Because Wash is wearing them. He blinks, catching a few locks in his hand. The gray and yellow there are almost a perfect match for his armor. “Uh… Tucker?”

“What?” He sounds tired, but there’s no fight in his voice. 

“Are these beads…?” Wash isn’t sure where he’s going with the question. 

“Oh, yeah. Caboose found ‘em for me. I used to let him and Junior put them all over back in the canyon when they were bored. He found a bead store on a supply run or something and grabbed a bunch. He uh… he said they reminded him of you, so…” Tucker trails off and shrugs, looking vaguely self-conscious. 

“I like them,” Wash says, not thinking twice. He goes back to dragging his fingers carefully through Tucker’s hair, but now he’s looking for flecks of yellow and deep gray. “I never noticed them before.”

“Well, yeah, it’s not like you usually mess with my hair much, dude.”

Face going pink, Wash jerks his hand away. Shit. Tucker huffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh calm down. Not like it was bugging me. It… I dunno, it was kinda nice.”

Well now they’re both blushing and Wash doesn’t know what the hell to do about that. Very, very slowly, he lets his hand drift back to Tucker’s hair. They don’t say anything else, but Tucker leans into him again. He’s not sure how long they stay like that, only getting up after Carolina and a woman in beige and blue armor round the corner. 

“There you are.” Carolina sounds exasperated, but… strangely relieved for some reason, her gun in hand. Then she pauses and almost does a double take. Wash and Tucker jerk apart and scramble to their feet. But Carolina’s already got her head cocked to one side. “Not interrupting something, are we?”

Wash glances at Tucker and then shakes his head. “No we were just… did you need something, Carolina?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “You weren’t answering your radios and no one had seen you in hours. With tensions running so high, we wanted to make sure you hadn’t gotten yourselves into any trouble. But I see that’s not the case…”

“Carolina,” he says, with the slightest hint of an edge to his tone. Her shoulders shift a little and he’s completely sure she’s muted her helmet so she can laugh at him. His eyes flick to the other soldier. Wash has definitely seen her and been introduced to her when she stopped by the infirmary. He nods politely. “General Kimball, I’m sorry if you were pulled away from anything important to look for us.”

“Not at all.” And it definitely sounds like she’s about ready to laugh at them too. “However, I did want to speak with you, if you’re available now.”

He glances at Tucker again, who shrugs awkwardly, and then nods. “Yes--I mean, I’m available. To talk. Right now. Let’s go do that.”

Wash grabs his helmet and jams it back on as he trails after Kimball and feels profoundly stupid. They get a few hallways away before she looks at him again. “I do apologize if we intruded on a private moment.”

It actually sounds like she means it, which is odd. Wash shakes his head. “No, it’s fine, we were just talking,” he says, because he’s not sure how to describe just what they were doing. 

“I see.” She definitely doesn’t believe him, but she leaves it at that. 

“What did you want to speak to me about?” he asks, when an awkward amount of silence has passed. 

“Let’s step into my office,” she says, directing him down another hall and into a small, cramped room. Wash is half sure she literally just picked the closest room, but there’s a desk and two chairs, so he sits as she does the same. Kimball laces her fingers together, hands resting on top of the desk. “Firstly, I would like to thank you for what you’ve done for Chorus.”

“Don’t,” Wash says, shaking his head, guilt jabbing him in the side. Or maybe that’s just one of his ribs settling into place a little too sharply. “I… I’m the last person you should be thanking, general. I assume Doyle’s told you, but I was training the Federal Army for weeks.”

“Believe me, I’m very aware of your involvement with their forces.” And there’s a hard edge to her words, but it’s not as much as he expects. “However, I am also aware of the fact that you, your friends, and nearly everyone else on this planet has been manipulated into fueling this conflict even further, myself included. There’s no point in holding that against anyone apart from those we’re still fighting.”

Wash nods slowly, sure that there’s another shoe that’s going to drop somewhere. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Something shifts in her posture, a tiny bit of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Your friends speak very highly of you, Agent Washington, and General Doyle seems to trust you immensely. As you probably know, neither he nor I are particularly used to running an army. Our troops have been in this war for years, but they’re untrained and up against enemies who won’t play by the rules.”

And here, she pauses, seeming almost hesitant, considering her words carefully. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but would consider training them? I’ve asked Agent Carolina and she’s agreed to help, and I assume Captain Tucker would be willing to do so as well. But the Federal Army knows you, they’re comfortable with you in a way they’ll never be with me or anyone I choose.”

For a moment, he says nothing, eyes a little wide behind his helmet. He straightens up a little in his seat, trying to pick his words carefully. “General, I’m… I’m flattered, but I think you’re severely overestimating me. Before the Federal Army, I’d only ever trained Tucker and Caboose. I have experience in the field, but I’m not much of a teacher.”

“Your record with the Feds begs to differ,” she counters, not unkindly. “I’ve looked at the statistics, Agent Washington. With your training, Federal Army casualties dropped to the lowest they’ve been in years.”

“They weren’t winning more battles,” he says, shaking his head. 

She lifts up a hand to stop him. “You misunderstand me. Winning is important, but this is about more than that. I don’t need you to teach them to fight. I can give anyone a gun and tell them to shoot. What I want is for you to teach them to survive.”

Well, there’s not much he can say to argue that. If there’s one thing Wash is good at, it’s surviving, although how he’s managed to last this long is something of a mystery even to him. 

Kimball seems to expecting an answer, her head tipped slightly to one side. He drums his fingers on his knee. “I… would you mind if I thought about it?”

“That’s fine. I’ve suspended training for the moment until things get a bit more stable. However, once we’ve moved to the capital, I will need an answer.”

“Of course, I’ll have one for you by then,” he says, nodding. His brow furrows. “Has General Doyle agreed to letting everyone move to the capital?”  

She lets out a breath and leans back in her seat a little. “He has not. Which brings me to other matter I had hoped to discuss with you. General Doyle and I have had… difficulties agreeing on, well, almost anything, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

He nods a little awkwardly. “I had picked up on that, yes.”

“And, as I also said before, Doyle trusts you--”

“Do you want me to spy on Doyle?” he asks, curiosity getting the best of him. He shouldn’t be interrupting, but there’s a slight nagging worry. With a conflict this long and this bloody, knowing it was a lie still doesn’t change much.

Kimball shakes her head instantly. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. And the last thing any of us need are the two of us spying on one another and driving another wedge between our people. No, what I’m asking is for you to help mediate between the two of us.”

Wash frowns. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I have some reservations, I won’t lie about that.” Kimball pauses, and Wash gets the feeling she’s assessing him, considering every little detail, any sign of weakness. “However, I am confident that you have the best interests of your friends at heart, and I trust Captain Tucker, who has vouched for you time and time again. And while you have helped the Federal Army, you seem to be a rather neutral party in all of this, and you seem quite capable of remaining calm under pressure… something both General Doyle and I often seem to struggle with.”

He hesitates for a moment. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s all I can ask of you. Thank you for your time, Agent Washington.” She rises from her chair and Wash takes that as a cue that the meeting is over, so he mirrors her and shakes her hand when she offers it. “If you see Captain Tucker, please tell him that I’d like to speak with him when he has the chance.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” he says nodding. 

“It’s done him a lot of good, having you back,” she says slowly. “I consider Captain Tucker a friend, so it’s… it’s nice seeing him happy.”

Wash stares at her for a moment and then nods again before stepping out of the room as quickly as possible, because he doesn’t know what that means and he can’t let himself dwell on it. If Tucker’s happy, it’s because they’re all back together and things seem to be going well. That’s all.

It’s nothing to do with him. He can’t start down that path or he’ll never stop. 

* * *

 

It takes some convincing, a few deals, several hours of screaming, and half an hour in a closet calming Doyle down from the point of tears, but between the two of them, Wash and Carolina manage to get the generals to agree to let the former rebels move to the capital. Because they’re not the rebels and the Feds anymore. Or they shouldn’t be. Those lines are still pretty clearly drawn, but maybe shoving everyone together suddenly will fix that. 

Yeah. Cause there’s nothing that could possibly go wrong with that. 

They all help pack up the base. There’s not actually that much when Wash looks at the numbers. How was an entire army running on this? Kimball’s let him and Carolina go through their records with Epsilon, checking to make sure there’s no bugs left behind by the mercs. The New Republic has a few other bases here and there, but even with all of them put together, Wash is pretty sure that they’ve been running on pure adrenaline and determination for a while now. And from what he knows of the Feds, they weren’t doing much better. 

He can’t help wondering what might have happened if their ship had crashed just a few months later. 

Packing everything up takes more time than it should. Wash finds himself moving a dozen different directions as people carry boxes of old pictures in one arm and rocket launchers under the other. There’s been some debate about how to move things. Kimball wants all her people in the capital as soon as possible, which Wash can’t blame her for. Doyle would rather let a few in at a time to let the people adjust. It’s not a terrible idea and might make certain things go more smoothly in the long run, but no one wants to make the choice of who gets to go first and who has to wait out in the cold. 

So they’re all going at once and it’s a mess. Kimball, Doyle, and all the injured from the last several battles, along with Dr. Grey and all the New Republic medics, are taking the few pelicans that the New Republic has left. Which leaves Wash, Carolina, and the Reds and Blues to get everyone else there. Wash is calling it now: worst road trip ever. 

At least it’s mostly just the rebels, but there’s enough Feds for it to still be an issue. The sounds of a fight greet Wash as he finishes counting up the boxes stacked in the back of one of the massive trucks they’ve managed to put back together. He sighs and marks off the number on his datapad, because he’s already lost count three times and he’s not doing this again, and then yanks down the cover on the back before rounding the truck. Sure enough, there’s a Fed and a rebel screaming in each other’s faces. 

“Hey!” His shout barely seems to phase them, so Wash storms over and wedges himself between the two of them. “What’s going on here, soldiers?”

“He won’t let me load up my things!” The rebel is tiny, the top of her head several inches shy of Wash’s shoulder, but she’s all rage and tense muscles, looking more than ready to tackle the Fed, who towers over her. 

“Is this true?” Wash asks, turning toward the Fed, keeping one hand on the rebel’s squirming shoulder, the other pressed to the Fed’s chest plate. 

He huffs and crosses his arms and there’s something vaguely familiar about his voice. “She didn’t have the proper forms. How am I supposed to know if she’s loading things up on the right jeep?” he asks, deep voice smug and condescending. 

And very familiar. Wash’s brow furrows. “Private Ortega?”

The Fed cocks his head to one side. “Yes, sir. You… you remember me?”

It’s hard to forget someone who nearly took his head off in training with an overenthusiastic swipe of what had turned out to not be a blunted training blade, but a very real one. “Of course I do. I didn’t know you’d been sent here--but look, that’s not the point. What forms are you talking about?”

With a long suffering sigh, Ortega pulls out his datapad and scrolls through before showing it to Wash. “Everyone’s got to sign up for what jeep they’re on. Those are the rules.”

Wash turns back to the rebel. “Do you have your forms?”

She groans and shakes her head. “I keep telling him I don’t know what he’s talking about. I didn’t get any fucking forms. Uh. Sir.”

Frowning, Wash lets his hand fall away from Ortega as he scans his own datapad. The issue becomes clear very quickly and he presses a hand to his visor. “Private Ortega?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Is there a chance that these forms weren’t sent to the New Republic soldiers?”

“Uh.” Ortega pokes at his datapad and coughs awkwardly. “Maybe. That… that could be the issue, sir. And uh… it would explain why no one’s signed up for spots...”

Wash counts to ten in his head and lets out a long breath. “Who’s in charge of distributing the forms?”

“Corporal Park, sir.”

“And where is the Corporal?” 

Ortega points toward a nearby barracks. As if on cue, familiar shouting echoes out from the slightly open door. Wash sighs. “Both of you follow me. Let’s get this sorted out.”

They fall into step behind him as he leads the way over to the barracks. The room is fill to the brim with beeping monitors and overflowing file cabinets. In the center, someone’s crammed a few desks, which are absolutely covered in papers and datapads. It’s already a mess when Wash pushes past the half open door and steps inside. As Wash had figured from the yelling, Carolina’s there, leaning on the desk, shouting at the people behind it. 

There’s a frazzled looking Fed, who’s frantically sorting through files, her helmet lost somewhere in the mess. For some reason, Grif, Simmons, and a rebel Wash doesn’t know are also seated on the other side of the desk. Simmons looks to be about ready to cry in the face of Carolina’s fury, his fingers moving over a datapad so fast it’s hard to see them. Grif and the rebel have their feet kicked up on the desk and cards in their hands, apparently totally ignorant of the storm brewing just inches away. 

“--how do you not have that on record, captain?” Carolina is snapping, gripping the edge of the desk hard enough to make the wood creak. 

“I don’t know! I wasn’t here when this was set up,” Simmons says, voice high and cracking. 

“You’ve been here for months! That’s not an excuse! If you’re going to manage the files, you should have familiarized yourself with the system by now!”

“I know, I know! Stop yelling at me, it’s not helping!”

Grif, seemingly not hearing the beginnings of a breakdown beside him, nudges the rebel. “Got any fours?”

“Go fish, sir.” He sounds almost as bored as Grif, completely unbothered by anything else in the room. 

“Park, where’s that registry?” Simmons asks, frantic, looking back at the Fed. 

She jumps, several papers slipping from her arms. “Oh bother. I’m not sure! It’s supposed to be in here, but I can’t find it!”

Carolina snarls. “Well look  _ harder _ .”

The Fed squeaks and more papers fly out of her hands as she nods and dives back into the files. 

Wash hears a snort near his elbow and glances down at the rebel. She’s got her head cocked to one side, arms crossed over her chest, a smirk on her face judging by her tone. “At least I’m not the only one ‘without the proper forms’. What a fucking joke.”

“What was your name, Private?” he asks her quietly.

She starts, looking up at him sharply. “Uh… Shula Karimi, sir.” 

Wash looks between her and the table. Simmons and Carolina and the corporal are all yelling now, and Grif seems to be getting in on the action too. He looks back down at Karimi. “How loud can you yell, Private Karimi?”

She looks between him and the argument and Wash can almost feel the grin spreading on her face. “Pretty loud, sir.”

“Good.”

He turns to Ortega. “Private Ortega, I’m going to need you to give Private Karimi a boost.”

“Uh, alright sir.”

Ortega lifts Karimi up onto his shoulders and Wash motions them forward, pointing at Karimi when they’re just a few feet from the desk. She nods and cranks up the mic on her helmet to let out an ear splitting shriek. Everyone turns instantly, hands flying to ears and guns. Wash brings his hands together. “Thank you, Private Karimi.”

The shrieking stops and Ortega carefully sets her down, both of them instantly taking a step away from the other. Baby steps. Carolina lowers her gun, everything about her posture screaming furious agitation. “Wash, what the hell?”

He shrugs. “It seemed like the thing to do. Now what in the hell is going on in here?”

“I’m trying to find the vehicle registry to make sure we have enough room for everyone. Apparently the one I’ve been working off is two years out of date,” she says, sending what’s definitely a glare at Simmons. 

“It’s not my fault!” he insists frantically. He leans to the side looking around her to Wash. “These files are a mess. Half of this stuff’s never been entered into a computer and it’s not organized by date. I don’t even know where to start looking for anything!”

Wash lets out a breath. “Carolina, I know you’re frustrated, but screaming at Simmons isn’t going to make this go any faster.”

“Thank you!”

“Who’s supposed to be in charge of these files?” Wash asks, glancing around the room. 

“Lieutenant Cruz,” says the rebel next to Grif. 

“And where are they?”

“Gone. She got hurt in the big fight pretty bad so she went with the generals to Armonia.”

Wash sighs. “Alright, did she have anyone helping her with this?”

“Corporal Barnes and Private Thomas.”

“And where are they?” Wash feels like a broken record.

“Dead.”

Wash fights down a groan. He approaches the desk, glancing between Simmons and the Fed. “I assume you’re Corporal Park?”

“Yes sir! Su-Jin Park at your service,” she says, saluting so suddenly and abruptly that she smacks herself in the forehead and lets out a little hiss of pain. Her hair is dark and very short, a crew cut that’s gone a little long without a trim, there’s a thick pair of round glasses in front of her dark eyes, and she has a faint burn scar stretching from her left ear down to her chin. She looks young, very young. 

“Ortega tells me you’re in charge of distributing some kind of form?”

She nods. “Yes sir, standard protocol for redeployment. Well, um, I know this isn’t exactly that, but General Doyle told me to treat this like any other transfer of troops. S-so that’s what I’ve been doing. And, um, I’m also supposed to be helping Captain Simmons organize these files.”

“Great job on that,” Grif says, with a snort.

Park wilts, biting at her lip. “S-sorry sir. I usually help General Doyle with organization when his main assistant is busy, but I’m better at dealing with computer issues. I-I don’t really know what I’m doing here. There’s so, so much to sort through.”

Wash hesitates, glancing back at Carolina for a moment. “How old are you, Corporal Park?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

In his peripheral vision, he’s sure he sees Carolina’s hands twitch at her sides. The corporal gnaws at her lip and gathers up the papers that had slipped from her arms. “But I’m good at my job, sir! I’m just not used to this, uh, filing system.”

“That’s cause there isn’t a fucking filing system,” Grif says, leaning back in his seat, grabbing a few papers at random and flicking through them. “Look, this shit’s been fucked since before we got here. You’ve got stuff from that Cruz lady and the seven other people before her who were supposed to be organizing everything all mixed together. None of them left a whole lot of instructions.”

Wash glances over the papers strewn about the desk. Grif definitely has a point. Even looking at the mess for just ten seconds, he’s seen a dozen different signatures here and there and hardly a single page that has the same handwriting on it. Everything’s changed hands too many times. They’ve lost way too many people. 

He looks around the room and takes a breath. Because they can’t let that slow them down. Wash turns. “Carolina, do you have Epsilon with you right now?”

The glowing blue avatar flickers into being before she can speak. “Yeah, I’m here. Just wanted to sit out this little screaming match. You people get so fucking loud.”

“Hop over to Simmons for a bit. You’ve been through all the computer files before, you should be able to help him and Corporal Park get all of this recorded properly. Corporal, the New Republic soldiers aren’t used to doing transfers the same way the Federal Army does. Private Karimi,” he says, motioning her closer, “I’ll need you to help her figure out how best to reach all the New Republic soldiers, you too, uh…”

He stares blankly at the man next to Grif. “Lieutenant Bitters,” he supplies.

“Thank you. The two of you have been through transfers before, right?” They both nod, and thank fucking god for that. “This doesn’t have to be exactly the way General Kimball or Doyle had you do things before, we just need to make it work, alright?”

Nodding, Karimi hops up onto the desk and pulls out her datapad, motioning Park over to her. With a heavy sigh, Bitters rises from his chair and edges around Grif and Simmons to help. 

That’s settled at least. Wash turns back toward Ortega. “And you, Private, I’ll need you to spread word that we’re putting a temporary pause on loading up until we get this sorted out. Make sure everyone knows so we don’t have anymore arguments about forms.”

He salutes and heads out the door. Wash glances around the room again. “Carolina, I think we’ll need to go over inventory again, just to make sure all the numbers line up with the records. And Grif--”

“Permission to stay with Simmons for moral support? Church’ll make him cry.”

“That was one time, Grif!” Simmons screeches.

Wash sighs. “Alright, fine. Epsilon, go on.”

“Do I have to? Seems like the kinda thing someone who’s, y’know, not me should do. Aren’t there other losers to do the bitch work?”

“Go on, Church,” Carolina says, hands on her hips. 

Epsilon turns toward her, clearly pouting. “Oh c’mon, aren’t there like important military things you need me doing?”

“This is an important military thing.”

“Yeah, but it’s fucking boring.”

“Epsilon.” Something in her tone makes him sigh and flicker out of view. Simmons shifts in his seat, hand flying to the back of his neck where Wash knows his implants lie. Epsilon reappears at his shoulder.

“Alright nerds, let’s get this shit over with. Just read me the numbers.”

“Where do we start?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Wash heads for the door, motioning for Carolina to follow him. He casts a glance back into the room, making sure no one looks ready to scream, and then leaves the door about an inch open. Hopefully Karimi and Bitters will go easy on Park, the poor kid looks like she could use a break. They all probably could. 

His mouth is halfway open, though whatever he’s about say shrivels and dies on his tongue when he looks over at Carolina. Every inch is tense, her fingers twitching in and out of fists at her sides. 

“Boss?” His voice is soft, tentative. She just shakes her head and he hears a pained exhale. 

Wash doesn’t think, he just starts walking, grabbing her wrist to tug her along. She doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t exactly have a destination in mind, but they end up a few buildings away, in a room full of boxes of ammo. They’re supposed to be doing inventory anyway, so it’s not the worst place to end up. Only once the door’s shut behind him does he let go and step away, more than a little surprised she hasn’t already knocked his hand away. 

The silence is heavy and Wash knows he did this for a reason, but he has no idea how to start whatever conversation they’re about to have. Luckily, Carolina beats him to the punch.

“Seventeen,” she says, voice low in a way that makes Wash tense. “Fucking seventeen.”

“I know.”

“These are  _ children _ .” She bites out the words and starts pacing. Not good. Wash moves to sit on the edge of a box. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen her like this. 

Carolina goes through different stages when she’s angry. First the low, quiet anger, when she’s trying to keep it down. Then the screaming and then smashing and screaming. This is a little further along, when there’s nothing in the world she can smash to make things better. 

She rips her helmet off and tosses it away so she can drag her hands through her hair. Someone’s cut it, the long red ponytail gone, leaving a short pixie cut, the red starting to fade here and there. There’s blonde roots sticking out, and if that doesn’t prove just how swamped she’s been, Wash doesn’t know what does. 

“Doyle sent a child here to organize things,” she snaps, a waver in her voice that means she’s almost to the point where words aren’t going to cut it. “Did he tell you about this?”

Wash shakes his head and forces down old, familiar nerves. “I had no idea. He told me he was sending someone named Corporal Park to handle the organizational matters. I hadn’t had a chance to look over her file yet.”

He pulls out his datapad as he speaks, pulling the file up and handing it to Carolina automatically when she reaches for it. Her face twitches. “Three years. Park’s been in this army for three years.”

For a second, Wash thinks she might break the datapad, but instead she taps at it furiously. “Who were those others in there?”

“Shula Karimi and… Diego Ortega,” he says, almost sure that was the private’s first name. “Lieutenant Bitters, I don’t know his first name.”

“Antoine,” Carolina says, eyes on the datapad. “At least he’s in his twenties. Ortega just turned twenty-one, and Karimi--”

Her lips press to a thin line. “Fifteen.”

She thrusts the datapad back at Wash, holding it like it’s something vile. He takes it, considering what to say slowly. “They’ve been at war for a long time, Carolina.”

“Are you defending them?” she asks, sounding somewhere between furious and horrified.

“No, I’m not.” He pulls off his helmet and sets it next to him as he rubs at his temple. “None of them should be in this fight, but from what I’ve seen, no one on this planet has much choice anymore. I doubt Kimball or Doyle would pick teenagers for their armies unless they had no other choice.”

Carolina opens and shuts her mouth a few times before she goes back to pacing. After a minute or so, she stops, hands on her hips as she tips her head back and glares at the ceiling. “I have to keep treating them like soldiers.”

“You do,” he says gently. 

“I hate this.”

“I know.” He does too, but if he thinks about that too much, he might rethink his answer to Kimball’s question. Which isn’t fair. Training people so young makes his insides crawl. But they need to learn how to survive. So it doesn’t matter how he feels about it. 

Carolina scrubs a hand over her face and takes a few long breaths. Slowly, she walks over and sinks down onto the box next to him. “And I used to think Freelancer was a mess.”

Wash snorts, half out of surprise as he looks at her. “Before or after they started giving out AIs?”

“Before,” she says, shrugging. 

“Why didn’t you ever say--”

“I couldn’t say that kind of stuff in front of the rookie.” She nudges him lightly, the tension slowly leaving her shoulders. “You should have heard me after York and I started drinking.”

A faint smile on his face, Wash shakes his head. “It’s probably better that I didn’t. I would’ve tattled.”

“Good point, now I remember why we didn’t invite you. Well, that and a few other reasons.” She’s grinning now, a slight hint of a tease in her voice. 

Wash presses his face into his hands, but he’s fighting down a laugh. “I’ll pay you to stop.”

“You say that like you weren’t fooling around with anyone,” she says, ruffling his hair. It’s familiar and makes something warm shift in his chest. But then there’s a rush of something else. The warmth is still there, but it’s wrapped up in blue and cold and too many words that never made it out. 

Carolina seems to feel it too, her hand moving to the back of his neck as she tugs him a little closer. “We never talk about it,” he says, almost surprising himself. “Them.”

She nods slowly and leans in, her forehead pressing to his temple. “I know. Any time I think I’m ready… it’s never been long enough.” Carolina pauses for a moment, then gently squeezes the back of his neck. “Remember that time someone dyed South’s hair blue?”

Wash snorts and nods. “She almost killed York. I thought she was gonna throw him out the airlock.”

“Yeah, I feel kinda bad for letting him take the fall for that one.”

His eyes go wide as he pulls away a little to stare at her. “That was you?”

“Yup.” And she sounds waaaaay too proud of herself for that. “I also taped Maine to the ceiling. Well, York helped, but it was my idea.”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you.” He shakes his head, laughing like he hasn’t in ages as he shoves at her shoulder. “You were supposed to be the good one.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Oh please, I had nothing on North.  _ He _ was the goody two shoes.”

Wash hums and tips his head from one side to the other. Carolina cocks an eyebrow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Carefully fixing an innocent expression on his face, Wash shrugs. “I dunno.”

“Wash,” she drags out his name.

“Well… alright, remember when Wyoming woke up without a mustache and found it glued to the outside of his helmet?”

Her eyes go wide and she presses a fist to her mouth. “No, he didn’t! There’s no way that was North.”

Wash grins. “I caught him doing it. He got me that bottle of schnapps so I’d keep quiet.”

“Right, right. I always wondered about that.” She pauses, brow furrowing a little. “I can’t remember you pulling any pranks.”

“That’s cause I didn’t,” Wash says, shrugging. “I tried to get York a few times after he got me so wasted I puked on the Director’s shoes, but it never worked, he always figured it out. Well… there was that one thing.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “What one thing?”

His face goes a little pink and he looks away. “Well, uh… okay, you know how someone accidentally filled your locker with bio foam?”

Her eyes narrow. “Yes…”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

“You ass!” She’s laughing as she grabs him in a headlock, half standing. He follows, squirming and snickering and batting at her, trying to get free. Carolina gets her other hand in his hair, ruffling and tugging at it. “Say uncle.”

“No! Get off!” But he can’t even make himself sound angry, he’s laughing too hard. 

They’re both in stitches, Wash still trying to wrestle free when the door flies open. 

“Wash are you--whoa.”

They both stop, turning to find Sarge, Tucker, and Donut standing in the doorway, staring at them with wide eyes. Carolina lets him go and he straightens up, trying to flatten down his hair. They’re both a little flushed and still working to stop giggling and the guys are staring at them like they’ve grown a couple extra heads. 

Carolina composes herself first. “Did you need us for something, Sarge?”

“Heard the two of you were doin’ inventory. Need you to come check the numbers, but if y’all ain’t done  _ canoodling _ just yet--” 

Wash snorts and claps a hand over his mouth, because Sarge sounds somewhere between disapproving father and vaguely encouraging wingman and he can’t decide which is worse or funnier. Carolina elbows him in the side, but he catches a hint of a smile on her face before she grabs her helmet and fixes it back in place. “Trust me, no more canoodling here. Lead the way, Colonel.”

“Good,” he grunts, and turns on his heel. Carolina follows him out, leaving the other two to stare at Wash. 

He looks between them and rubs sheepishly at the back of his neck, though he’s not quite sure why. “Did uh… did you guys need me for something?”

“Dude.” There’s something odd about the expression on Tucker’s face, like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown. “I thought you weren’t into Carolina,” he finally says.

Wash’s eyes go wide and then his brow furrows. “What? I’m not. I don’t really see what that has to do with anything though.”

“So what was that?”

“I… don’t know.” Because he doesn’t. Wash can’t remember the last time he’s done that. Well, he almost can. Years ago, another team. “We were just messing around. You know, like you guys do. All the time. Why?”

Tucker hesitates, looking at Donut, who meets his eyes and shrugs. Now what the hell does that mean. He shifts on the spot, crossing his arms over his chest, glaring at the floor. “Just… never heard you laugh like that before.”

And Wash has no idea what to do with that. It definitely sounds important, but he’s not sure why. “Tucker, I--”

“Forget it,” Tucker says quickly, shaking his head. He looks up at Wash and there’s something different in his eyes now. Whatever it is, he doesn’t look upset anymore, so that’s at least something. “Me and Caboose are loading up our shit, just wanted to tell you you’re riding with us, so if there’s anything you want in there, you better pack it up fast before Caboose fills the car with his pillow collection.”

“Alright, I don’t have much here, but I’ll get packed up later tonight,” Wash says, still feeling a little lost. 

Tucker nods and it looks like he wants to say something else, but he just turns on his heel and leaves. Brow furrowing again, Wash looks to Donut. “What was that about?”

Donut eyes him for a moment and then sighs. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the one you should be asking about that.”

He pushes himself off the doorframe and walks further into the room, scooping up Wash’s helmet from the floor. Staring at the visor, Donut frowns. “You know… Tucker’s right. I can’t remember ever hearing you laugh like that around us. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you laugh, Wash.”

For some reason, he sounds really upset about that. Wash shrugs, feeling weirdly sheepish. “I just don’t really laugh very much, Donut.”

And the heavy, aching sigh from Donut makes Wash’s gut turn. His big blue eyes are so sad when he looks away from the helmet. “I know.”

It definitely feels like he’s missing something here. A thought suddenly occurs to Wash and it feels like it slaps him across the face. “That’s not because of you guys,” he says quickly, taking a step forward. He half reaches for Donut, but then lets his hand fall back to his side. “It’s nothing you’re doing… or not doing. It’s me.”

The corners of Donut’s mouth turn up, but he still looks sad. He sets Wash’s helmet down and strides forward, wrapping his arms around Wash’s waist. Oh god, Donut’s hugging him. Wash is getting used to Caboose hugs that sweep him off his feet and make him feel warm and safe. This is a little different. For one thing, Donut’s quite a bit shorter. 

Short enough that Wash can lean forward and rest his chin on top of his head as he slowly winds his arms around Donut’s shoulders. He’s pretty sure he’s still not good at this whole hugging thing, but Donut’s looking a little less upset when he finally pulls away and links their arms together and insists that it’s time for a lunch break. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for commenting and leaving kudos! So uh... this one got a little long. This is what I get for not writing with planned chapter breaks in mind. There's a few OCs in here, who I hope you guys like! I mostly just wanted to throw in a few more Feds and rebels, but I might've gotten a little too attached to a few of them, oops. Anyway, I'm really excited for you guys to see the next chapter, because it's road trip time! What could possibly go wrong?


	9. Could End In Burning Flames

The road trip isn’t quite as bad as Wash expects, but that’s only because he had half figured they’d be attacked by pirates and never even reach the capital. They get everything loaded up and everyone on their assigned vehicle. Carolina, Donut, and a few Feds and rebels are on motorcycles, running messages from one car to another, checking in on things, making sure no one’s trying to kill each other. 

Things are a little weird in the warthog with Caboose and Tucker. Before they left, Tucker had pulled Carolina aside that morning in the mess hall, and Wash didn’t see either of them again until Tucker rushed to hop into the jeep just before they set off. Carolina had sent him a very weird smile before throwing a leg over her motorcycle and speeding off down the line of cars. He wants to ask, but he’s pretty sure neither of them are going to tell him anything. 

Tucker spends the first few hours telling ridiculous stories and chatting up anyone who’ll listen over the shared channel they set up for the trip. Wash is driving and only half paying attention, though Tucker keeps nudging him and asking for his input and he doesn’t quite know why, so his answers are probably less than enthusiastic. At some point, Tucker shuts off his radio and kicks his feet up on the dashboard, arms crossed over his chest as he moodily announces that he’s taking a nap. From the way he shifts every five seconds, Wash is pretty sure he’s not making much of an attempt to actually sleep. Which… isn’t great as he’s supposed to take the next shift. 

The plan is to keep moving until they reach the capital, which is a three day drive away with their current route. It’s not a great plan, Wash idly thinks as he glances toward the setting sun. They’ve got enough drivers that it should work out, but no one’s going to be particularly happy by the time they get there. 

Caboose chatters at him from the back, where he’s playing some game on his datapad, but even he’s acting a little odd, trailing off in the middle of sentences and interrupting himself to change the subject. Wash wants to ask, but he has to keep his attention on the road and the radio, checking in with people every few minutes. The Reds are up at the front of the line, because of course Sarge had insisted on it, and Wash can’t stop himself from pinging Grif or Simmons or Sarge, or even Lopez every few minutes. 

_ “Everything’s fine, Wash,” _ Donut says gently, as the light starts to fade from the sky.  _ “They’re just looking for a good spot to pull over for driver change up. How’re you guys doing back there?” _

“We’re alright, I think Tucker’s asleep.”

“Am not,” says a drowsy voice next to him. Which probably means Tucker at least managed to drift off for a little while, which is better than nothing. 

Wash rolls his eyes. “I can handle another few hours.”

_“Wash,”_ Carolina’s voice cuts in. _“You’re switching with everyone else.”_

He huffs, but doesn’t argue. They’ve already had this fight. Everyone takes the same shifts, even the two of them. The switch is staggered, the first car pulls off, changes drivers, takes care of anything they need to then catches up with the end of the line, once they’re back, the second car goes and so on and so forth. It’s not a terrible system, but there’s definite flaws and Wash has to stop himself from playing all of them in his head on repeat as Sarge announces that they’ve found a spot and their jeep veers off to the right. 

It’s hard for Wash not to hold his breath until they’re back in line with everyone else. Steadily, the cars in front of them peel off one by one and then join back up. They’re right in the middle. Wash clutches the steering wheel tightly as the last truck in front of them goes off to the left. There’s a soft shift next to him as Tucker sits up, suddenly alert. They’re both on edge until Bitters chimes in on the radio, saying he’s back in position, taking over from Matthews. 

_“Wash, pull off._ ” Carolina’s voice is low and insistent in his ear.

“Just looking for a decent spot, boss.” His eyes are scanning the road ahead, and the map programmed into the navigation. He keeps going for another minute. 

_ “What the fuck, Wash?” _ Grif’s voice makes his hands tighten on the wheel.  _ “C’mon people back here wanna sleep.” _

_ “Washington, pull over.” _ Carolina isn’t asking. 

“Just a little further,” he says, almost absently. 

Tucker’s hand gently curls around his wrist and the strange quiet tells him that Caboose has stopped playing his game in the back. “Wash, c’mon.”

He lets out a shaky breath and turns off. They’ve mostly been driving across miles and miles of dust, which is half the point. A clear cut route straight through to the capital would take them too close to abandoned cities, which could all easily be pirate outposts. Somehow the empty nothing stretching off in all directions doesn’t make Wash feel much better. 

There’s a nice flat patch of nothing not far from their route where he stops. Caboose hops out of the jeep and runs around it a few times before flopping onto the ground to make sand angels. Tucker doesn’t move, his hand still curled around Wash’s wrist. 

“You gonna be able to sleep at all here?” he asks, voice low. 

Wash lets out a breath and shrugs. “I’m not sure, but it seems like I have to try.”

“You wanna hop in the back? Might be more comfortable back there.”

“No, it’s fine. I’d rather be up front.” 

He shoots Tucker a sideways glance, he hasn’t let go, but he’s turned away, staring at something outside the jeep. “So… this morning, you and Carolina--”

“Caboose what the fuck, don’t eat that!” Tucker’s up and moving before he can finish the question and Wash is right behind him. 

After spending five minutes convincing Caboose not to eat the glowing green ‘candy’ he found half covered in the sand, they’re back on the road, joining up with the rest of the cars again. 

“What took you guys so long?” Donut asks, his motorcycle pulling along side them.

Tucker shakes his head. “Don’t fucking ask, dude.” 

Wash tries to sleep, he really does. He manages maybe an hour total, jerking awake every few minutes to scan the dark horizon. Tucker must be playing music inside his helmet, his hand lightly tapping at the steering wheel. Caboose at least seems to have no trouble sleeping, his soft snores carrying from the back. Shifting in his seat, Wash glances up as a motorcycle passes by, Carolina swapped out for Palomo, who pulls up even with them and chatters at Tucker for a bit. 

“Fucking hate that guy,” Tucker mutters, shaking his head as Palomo speeds off down the line again. 

“Why?”

If Tucker’s surprised he’s awake, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he just shrugs. “He’s annoying.”

“And? I’m pretty sure you’d say all your friends are annoying.”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Tucker says dismissively. 

“How?”

He huffs and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Cause it’s not my responsibility when Grif fucks up. Or if Simmons goes and gets himself shot, it’s gonna bug me, yeah, but it’s probably not my fucking fault. Palomo’s an idiot and he fucking looks at me like… like I’m…”

“A hero?” Wash offers.

Tucker nods. “It’s a fucking pain. And I mean, okay yeah, I’m kind of a badass sometimes, but I’m not a fucking role model. Palomo’s like those stupid kids that see something on TV and then go out and try it and end up with a face full of staples.”

The corners of Wash’s eyes crinkle. “You’re worried about him.”

“Fuck you.” Tucker makes an irritated noise, but he doesn’t deny it. “It’s just… he’s such a dumbass, y’know? I’ve gotta look over his goddamn shoulder all the time to make sure he’s cleaned his gun right and that he knows what the plan is and that he didn’t lose his fucking helmet again.”

He goes on and on and Wash just feels himself smiling, a little warmth bubbling up in his chest. After a minute, Tucker huffs. “I can feel you staring. What? Is there something on my helmet?”

“You really care about this kid, don’t you?”

Tucker groans. “I don’t. And would you just go the fuck to sleep already?” 

“It’s not bad to care about people, Tucker,” says Wash, because he’s the biggest hypocrite in the universe. Although he’s working on that. Caring about the Feds and rebels is still a massive inconvenience, but he’s alright with worrying about his team. Baby steps. 

There’s a grunt and then a sigh. Tucker’s helmet turns slightly and Wash can tell he’s watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Why aren’t you giving me more shit about this?”

“Because I think it’s sweet.”

Tucker gags and shoves at his shoulder. “You’re so fucking weird sometimes. But seriously, Wash, you should be sleeping. I’m not taking your fucking shift tomorrow, and if Caboose drives, he’s gonna kill us both and probably everyone behind us.”

“I’m trying.” And he really has been. “It’s just hard to get comfortable.”

“Fucking told you to sleep in the back.”

Wash makes a face. “It’s not the seat so much, it’s just…”

“Unfamiliar?”

He blinks and then nods. “I think that’s part of the problem. How did you--”

“You told me back at the crash site, remember? Said that was why you were having nightmares. Sometimes I listen to you, man,” he adds, shrugging. “Here, try this.”

And he reaches over, grabbing at Wash’s arm, tugging at him until he leans to rest his head against Tucker’s shoulder, face going pink under his helmet. Tucker keeps his arm looped loosely around him. “That any better?”

“You should keep both hands on the wheel.” But he shifts a little and finds it is much more comfortable than just laying back in his seat. It’s not perfect, but Tucker’s arm is a solid, comfortable weight around him, something to keep him grounded. 

Tucker scoffs, but doesn’t take his arm away. “I can drive fine. Just going in a straight line till morning anyway. Now would you just fucking sleep already?”

“I’ll try.”

* * *

The second day is largely uneventful. Caboose and Donut try to get everyone to play eye spy, which is hilarious for about ten minutes before it devolves into a screaming match that bleeds into several different radio channels. Having gotten more sleep than expected, Wash largely tunes it out and lets Carolina and Epsilon scream at people to stop clogging up the important frequencies. Tucker sprawls in the passenger’s seat, head lolling onto Wash’s shoulder for several hours. One of the motorcyclists that day, a rebel called Andersmith, pulls up along side them for a while and spends a few hours chatting animatedly with Caboose.

There’s a slight scuffle on one of the buses, because someone had decided it was a good idea for the Feds and the rebels to be crammed in small spaces together for long amounts of time. They had repurposed several old, broken buses, which had apparently once been part of the Chorus public transit system, which, like everything else on the planet, hadn’t seen a whole lot of use since the start of the war. A few had already been partially armored and fitted with guns, though they hadn’t seen much use until this trip. Their car is pretty close to the bus, so Tucker gets up with a yawn and hops onto Andersmith’s bike to go break up the fight before someone gets thrown out a window. The lieutenant gives Wash a play by play of the whole encounter and he decides he likes Andersmith, returning his salute after he drops Tucker back off and speeds away. 

Everyone’s tired and eager to reach the capital when they switch divers again, but they’re making decent time. They still can’t actually contact the capital from the road. Long range radios are too easy for the pirates to eavesdrop on. Epsilon had been trying to work out a secure frequency before they left, but he hadn’t been quite certain it would be completely untouchable, so they had all decided it would be safer to go without. Once they’re within a few hundred miles, it should be alright. 

The last branch of the trip is a lot of twists and turns. There’s more and more abandoned cities and suburbs as they get closer to the capital. Their route isn’t the most direct, but it should keep them clear of any of the major spot that could be pirate bases. 

Wash spends the next night leaning up against Tucker again, because as soon as he tries to get settled, Tucker reaches over and tugs him close. Grif wolf whistles from his motorcycle as he goes by and Tucker flips him off as Wash’s face burns, but it’s not enough to get him to move.  

* * *

 

They’re six hours from the capital when the pirates attack. 

Simmons spots them first. His voice pulls Wash from the rather pointless conversation he’d been having with Caboose. “Uh, Wash?”

Something about his tone makes Wash sit up a little straighter in his seat, hands tightening ever so slightly on the steering wheel. “What is it?”

“I uh… it might be nothing, but there’s a really weird looking dust storm up on the right heading out of those buildings.” 

They’re passing by an abandoned town called Sarpesha, the route curving around to avoid it by several miles. Reports hadn’t mentioned any pirate activity there, so it had seemed like a place they wouldn’t have to steer too clear of. So much for that. 

Wash reaches over and gives Tucker’s shoulder a gentle shake. He wakes up with a little jolt and sits bolt upright. “What’s going on? Are we there yet?”

“What do you see up there on the right?”

Tucker must hear the quiet, forced calm to his voice, because he leans forward, peering into the distance, hand coming up to adjust the view on his helmet. “Aw shit.”

Wash lets out a breath. Great, just great. 

“Can you tell how many there are?”

“Not really. It doesn’t look like a whole lot though.”

“Just a small raiding party? We could deal with that--”

“Uh, Agent Washington?” Caboose gently taps him on the shoulder and Wash fights back a wince. “There are some not friendly people behind us. They are very fast.”

_ “He’s not wrong,” _ says Carolina, her voice crackling over the radio.  _ “They’re coming up on us quick.”  _

“Can you tell how many?” Wash keeps his eyes fixed on the truck in front of them. “Simmons, what about you? Have you got a better look at them?”

_ “Hang on, uh… looks like there’s ten--no twelve. Smaller vehicles, Jesus they’re going fast. The fuck do we do?” _

“Just stay calm. Carolina, how many?”

_ “A dozen bikes. Damn it, where did they come from?” _

“Must’ve been in one of the cities a little ways back. They were probably staying out of range until we got closer to the others. Simmons, try to contact the capital. The pirates already know we’re here.” He broadcasts across all their radio channels, making himself heard over the nervous chatter. “Mongoose drivers, grab gunners and get in defensive positions. Caboose, get on the gun.”

“Okay!” Caboose scrambles up and into the gunner position as a chorus of voices chime in. 

He sees hints of movement ahead and behind in the mirrors. Bikes fly past, pulling up at the trucks and buses and jeeps, pulling on extra riders, who heft all manner of weapons. Carolina flies past, Donut on the back of her mongoose, grenades at the ready. Tucker’s tense in the seat next to him, gun drawn as he stares into the distance. The bikes are easier to see now, rushing far ahead of the great clouds of dust they’ve kicked up behind them. 

“See any familiar faces?” Wash asks, before he can stop himself. 

Tucker shakes his head. “Can’t tell from here. Fuuuuck, how did they know we’d come this way?”

“That is a very good question.” Because this isn’t a direct route. They were careful, working out the details with Doyle and Kimball before they had even left. Half the reason for their formation was to keep the coordinates in as few hands as possible, just to be safe. Something somewhere had broken down. 

Simmons voice cuts through his thoughts:  _ “Wash, I can’t get through, I think they’re jamming us.” _

“Damn it. Carolina, did you hear? Can you get Epsilon to do anything about that?”

_ “Already working on it.” _ Hearing Epsilon’s voice over the radio always makes him twitch, but he can’t think about that. It’s not in his head. It’s fine.  _ “Yeah they’re sending out some kinda signal to block long distance frequencies. There’s gotta be another tower or something they set up. Gonna try to work around it, but it’ll take some time.” _

“Forget it. Focus on helping Carolina. We can contact the capital after we get out of this.” Even if they could reach them, it would still be hours, even by pelican to get to them. So for now, they’re on their own. 

The motorcycles stay tight to the line of cars, trucks, and buses, but he catches a flash of teal and pink breaking off, veering around toward the oncoming pirates. Grenades fly through the air and the pirates scatter, a few bikes sent flying, their drivers blown to bits. God, Donut’s got one hell of an arm. But the pirates are still coming. 

There’s screaming on the radio and gunfire behind them. But there’s another noise that makes Wash curse as he looks up. “Ships incoming,” he shouts into the radio. “Caboose, take them down!”

“Okay!”

Three ships flicker into view as they descend and the doors drop open, pirates leaping down, dropping bombs, chaos filling the air. Thank god Dr. Grey had thought to shuffle Freckles over to their jeep before leaving. The robotic voice carries as it locks on targets, shooting several falling pirates out of the sky. Their grappling hooks latch onto the truck just in front of the jeep. Wash grabs his pistol, taking out those Caboose misses, sending them falling from the truck with screams and anguished cries, the ropes dangling uselessly from the sides of the truck.

“Hang on!” Wash swerves, narrowing avoiding a blast from a dropped shell. Tucker grabs at his arm and then stands, sword flaring into life as a pirate lands on the hood of the jeep. In an instant, Tucker’s got one leg over the windshield and his sword swishes and sizzles as he drives it into the pirate’s back. There’s a scream and Tucker kicks the body away, a sickening sound following as the car behind them makes sure the pirate’s not getting up again. 

A motorcycle pulls even with them. Wash recognizes the white and blue of Ortega’s armor and, for some reason, the beige and red of Karimi’s. She’s got a rocket launcher that’s almost as big as she is hefted over one shoulder. “Agent Washington! We’re getting fucked, sir!”

“I can see that. How bad is it back there?” 

“Took out a bunch of the dicks on the bikes, but they got one of the jeeps. Shit, incoming!” She turns, aiming a rocket over the jeep. 

The pirates have caught up on their bikes, dark armor flashing between the cars and trucks. There’s an earsplitting rev of an engine as a bike with two pirates pulls even along the other side. They dip and weave, barely avoiding the rocket, the blast from it showering all of them with sand and rocks. 

Tucker’s half stood in his seat, sword in one hand, pistol in the other. The bike isn’t quite in stabbing distance, so he fires, swaying a little with the motion of the car. Two bullets find their mark, punching into the driver’s gut, the bike swerving dangerously close as the other pirate scrambles to grab the controls. Sparks fly as the bike scrapes along the jeep’s side. 

Wash grits his teeth, trying to keep them steady, one hand going to Tucker’s back when he lurches back from the flash of a blade. Tucker manages a swipe with his sword that makes the other pirate scream before losing their grip on the bike entirely. With no one driving, it swerves off, hitting a bump and rolling, left behind in the dust. 

“Nice one.” But Wash doesn’t cheer for long, because Tucker’s settling heavily back in his seat, clutching at his side, bright red staining aqua armor. He hadn’t gotten out of the way of the knife. Damn it. “Caboose, where’s the bio foam?”

“Dude, it’s fine.” Tucker sounds strained, a forced calm to his voice as he presses his hand tight to his side. “Barely even got me.”

But Wash is already moving, grabbing the healing unit from his armor and slotting it into Tucker’s without looking. “You’re keeping that,” he snaps, eyes back on the road. 

There’s not time for him to argue because boots land heavily on the truck in front of them and Karimi lets out a horrible noise of pain as they take aim and fire. 

“Shit!” Ortega lurches and swerves, awkwardly wrapping an arm around her to stop her slipping off the bike. 

“Well, well, well, fancy seeing you here Wash,” says a familiar voice that makes Wash’s knuckles go white on the wheel. “Oh, and here’s Tucker too. Am I interrupting a little family drive?”

“ _ Felix _ .” Tucker spits out the merc’s name, half rising before he hisses and clutches at his side and Wash yanks him back down. 

“Ooh, you’re looking a little rough there, pal,” Felix says, kneeling at the edge of the truck’s roof. “You should really get that looked at. Y’know, I’d love to stay and chat, but there’s a bus up there that’s got my name written all over it.”

He gives a mocking salute and jumps back just as Caboose fills the space he just occupied with bullets. Wash curses under his breath. Tucker tries to rise again, hissing in pain. 

“What are you doing? Tucker, sit down.”

“You heard him, Wash! There’s gotta be twenty people on that bus up there. I have to--”

Wash yanks him back down again. “No, what you have to do is stay here! I’ll handle Felix.”

He ignores the incredulous sound from Tucker as he turns back toward the bike. “Ortega, how is she?”

“Bleeding, a lot,” he says, sounding frantic and distracted, one arm still desperately clutching at Karimi, the other barely keeping the steering steady.

“Can still fuckin’ hear you, asshat.” Karimi’s voice is weak, her hands clutching at Ortega, rocket launcher long gone. 

Wash looks this way and that. There’s a rope still hanging from one side of the truck. “Ortega, get as close as you can. Caboose, grab Karimi. Tucker, are you good to drive?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m good, just fucking do it.”

“Ortega now!” 

“I hate this, sir!” But he swerves in close enough for Caboose to half lean out of the back of the jeep, scooping up Karimi’s tiny form with one massive arm. 

“Hello Private Caramel,” he says, brightly as he settles back into the jeep. 

“My fuckin’ hero,” Wash hears her mutter. 

Wash shifts in his seat, one hand gripping the side of the jeep. Ortega stays close and Tucker scooches over. “Make sure Karimi gets biofoam. Alright, Tucker, on three.”

He counts down and springs from the jeep onto the back of the motorcycle. Both vehicles swerve for a moment, but Tucker slides into the driver’s seat and gets the jeep under control as Ortega speeds forward, drawing even with the truck. Wash can see hints of black and orange on top. The bus just ahead is full of screams, sniper fire making dozens of holes in the back door. Damn it. 

Ortega keeps speed with the truck and Wash leaps again, scrambling for purchase on the rope, just barely hauling himself up. Wind whips and tugs at him, but he climbs, hand over hand. With a grunt, he throws himself on top of the truck, quickly rolling to his feet. Felix is crouched near the front over a sniper rifle. At least he’s not nearly as good with it as Locus. But the bus is still a huge fucking target, boxed in by ally and enemy motorcycles. 

Wash rushes forward just as Felix turns, ducking and rolling out of the way of the incoming blow. Can’t use guns. The truck is packed with too many important things and the drivers only have so much armor plating to protect them. So Wash goes for his knives. 

Felix is up and darting toward him, catching Wash’s blade with one of his own. “Aw gee, we both picked the same thing, now that’s just embarrassing.”

It’s impossible not to roll his eyes as he kicks Felix in the stomach, the momentum sending both of them stumbling dangerously close to the edge. “Ortega!” Wash yells. “Who the fuck is driving this thing?”

“Bitters, sir!”

“Tell him to get on the goddamn radio.” Wash ducks just as Felix swipes at his head. Crouching and swinging a leg around to catch Felix’s knees. But the merc bends backwards and flips back to his feet. 

It’s all flashes of metal and hisses and curses as flecks of blood from both of them paint the top of the truck. Wash can’t remember the last time he went blade to blade with someone like this. Felix bends and weaves and lunges and spins, matching him motion for motion, step for step. He slices down Felix’s arm, but then hisses as a blade bites into his leg. 

They both take a step back, circling each other, breath coming sharp, adrenaline rushing. There’s screams and shouts and explosions all around, Wash is distantly aware of one of those ships overhead crashing heavily into the sand, but it fades, the world narrowing to the top of the truck. Felix barks out a laugh and shakes his head, knife still at the ready. “Damn Wash, if I knew you could move like that, I would’ve called dibs first. Guess I get what Locus sees now.”

“What?” Wash asks, because he can’t stop himself. 

“Yeah, he had this whole grand scheme. He thought he could get you to jump ship to the winning team. Told him he was wasting his time. I mean,  _ Locus _ seducing someone? Like that’s gonna happen. Plus, I don’t know what he’d even be able to do around the stick that’s already up your ass.”

“Is that what he was trying to do? Funny, I didn’t pick up on that.” And then Wash lunges. 

They dance around each other again, blades flashing, meeting again and again, finding Felix’s side and Wash’s shoulder. Felix is still blathering on, because no one ever taught him how to shut up. Wash mutes his exterior mic and hisses into the radio: “Bitters, are you there?”

_ “Yeah, yeah--what the fuck’s going on up there?” _ It’s strangely something of a relief  to hear a touch of energy in the typically flat tone. 

“Ask Ortega. Later.” Wash curses and ducks and rolls, Felix’s blows getting a little too close for comfort. 

“Are you talking about me in there?” Felix asks, darting forward with a slice that nearly gets Wash across the throat. “That’s just rude, Wash. I thought we were really connecting here.”

“I need you to swerve. Just as much as possible.” 

_ “Carolina said to stay in formation--” _

“Just do it!”

_ “Ugh fine. Fucking Freelancers.” _

“On my mark.”

Wash gets a few feet of space and then sucks in a breath. If this doesn’t work, it’s not going to be pretty. He throws three knives at Felix, forcing him to dance backwards and further out of reach. Felix snorts and spreads his arms wide. “That all you got, Wash? It’s like you’re not even trying--”

In an instant, Wash throws himself down, wrenching the still hanging grappling hook from the roof of the truck. He swings it, catching Felix around the leg and yanking his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling onto the roof of the truck. And he clicks his mic back on. “Picked up on that, huh? Maybe you’re right, we are connecting. Now Bitters!”

“The fuck--” Felix’s indignant yell is cut off as the truck swerves, breaking formation, leaving the line to drive this way and that. Cursing a blue streak, Felix scrambles, desperately trying to find purchase before he goes off the edge of the truck. Wash barely manages to keep his footing, letting out a breath of relief when Felix goes over. But then the rope he’s still holding goes taught at the truck takes another violent turn and Wash never had a chance. 

“Fuck--stop, Bitters stop, that’s enough!” His gloves leave scrapes and scratches along the roof of the truck. He grabs another knife from his belt and drives it into the last two inches of the roof. Holding on desperately, his legs flying out behind him before smacking hard down against the back of the truck. Shit. Shit shit shit. 

The truck turns again, heading back toward the line, driving over a massive rock that makes the whole vehicle jerk and Wash can’t hold on. For a second, he’s flying, watching cars and trucks and buses speed by. And then the sand and rocks rush up to meet him and he curses and grunts and moans as he rolls several feet and stops face down in the dirt. 

For a moment, he just lies there. His head and several other places are throbbing and there’s a dozen different voices screaming at him over the mic. 

_ “Wash? Wash, you still up there?” _

_ “Bitters what happened? Where’d he go?” _

_ “Did you see that? That was the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever--” _

_ “I see him! Wash get up!” _

It’s Tucker’s voice that punches him in the gut and forces him to his feet. He sways and looks up as everyone screams in his head and finds himself staring down a pair of headlights. Oh goddamn it. 

The bumper catches him in the middle and the air goes out of him, and he gasps as he tries to scramble up on the hood. There’s something horribly familiar about this. At least he has his hands free this time. But then there’s even more screaming in his head. 

_ “Jensen stop, that’s Wash!” _

_ “Who the fuck let her drive--” _

_ “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” _

And the car slams to a stop, but Wash keeps going, tumbling head over heels in the sand. This time he sprawls flat on his back, staring up at the sky as he chokes on a painted groan. 

Tucker is screaming somewhere in his head, and Carolina echoes him. But he’s more focused on the frantic footsteps that approach him. “Oh god, Agent Washington, are you okay? I’m so sorry! I was trying to get Felix--”

“That was soooo badass. Oh my god, you were like swish, swish, stab--”

He knows those voices. “Palomo,” he wheezes out. “Please stop talking.”

“Can do, sir!”

_ “Wash?” _ Carolina still sounds somewhere between panic and fury.

“I’m here.” And he coughs. At least it doesn’t taste that bloody. That’s probably a good sign. 

_ “Jensen, Palomo, get him up and get back in formation.” _

“Yes ma’am!” 

They each grab one of Wash’s arms and pull him to his feet. It’s a little awkward, they’re both shorter than him, but he manages to get his legs working at least a little with them both supporting him. Jensen helps him clamber into the back, where he instantly collapses onto his back to clutch at his aching ribs again. He waves her off when she peers down at him, concern evident even behind her helmet. “I’m fine, just get back to the line. How many pirates left?”

“Carolina’s dealing with the last of them now, sir,” says Palomo from the driver’s seat, thank god. Jensen takes shotgun and they speed back into formation. 

“Jensen,” he says, between heavy, pained breaths. 

“Yes, sir?”

“Did you get Felix?”

“I definitely hit him, but I think he got up again. Sorry.”

“No, no… that’s alright. You tried. Any chance you recorded that?”

“I did, sir!”

“Good. Gonna need to see that later.”

They catch up with the tail end of the line as Carolina and Donut dispatch the last of the pirates, grenades flying into the still open hatch of the last ship. Wash wants to ask how many they lost and he doesn’t. There’s a dozen pings of people trying to message him. He opens the Blue Team channel first. 

“You two alright?” 

_ “Agent Washington, you’re alive! See, Tucker, I told you he’d be fine--” _

_ “Oh shut up. But dude, what the fuck was that?” _

“I had to stop Felix--Tucker, are you alright? And Karimi?”

_ “She’s okay. Sarge talked Caboose through patching her up. I mean--she’s not great, but she’ll make it to the capital.” _

That’s not exactly reassuring, but it’s probably the best he can hope for. “And what about you Tucker?”

_ “Me? I’m fucking fine. You’re the one that took a car to the gut. I’m gonna have someone give you the healing unit back.” _

“No, keep it. I’m alright.”

_ “Dude--” _

“No, really. I think it’s just broken ribs.” Wash has broken them enough times to know the feeling. At least there’s not the telltale blood filling his mouth that means something’s really wrong. 

Tucker scoffs.  _ “ _ Just _ broken ribs, okay Agent Cockroach.”  _

There’s a very insistent ping and Wash sighs. What does  _ he _ want? Or he tries to, it turns into a cough. “Hold on, Tucker. What is it, Epsilon?”

_ “What the fuck were you thinking?” _ Wash winces, the familiar voice reaching that special earsplitting screech. 

“I was thinking ‘stop Felix from shooting up a bus full of teenagers’ mostly.”

_ “And what part of that screams ‘knife fight on a moving truck’ to you, Washington?”  _

Wash rolls his eyes. “It worked, didn’t it? Why are  _ you _ lecturing me instead of Carolina?”

_ “Oh trust me, she’s gonna. I just called first dibs.” _

His brow furrows, slight frown sliding into place. “And why would you do that?”

_ “Well… y’know, cause it was fucking stupid. And okay, yeah, it worked but…” _ There’s something very strange about Epsilon’s tone. He’s almost hesitant. No that’s not quite right. 

“Epsilon?”

_ “Look, it’s just--” _ There’s a rush of static like a sigh.  _ “You took too fucking long getting up, alright? It looked like--I thought--fuck, y’know what, just forget it. Who gives a shit? Clearly not you!” _

And what the hell does that mean? Wash blinks up at the sky, trying to put the pieces together. Epsilon sounds upset. But that’s not really anything new for them. He shakes his head, he’s been knocked around too much to deal with this. “You’re not making any sense.”

_ “I just said forget it! Carolina wants to talk to you. Glad you’re not dead, fuckface.” _ And then the channel clicks off, another ping popping up almost instantly. 

Wash faintly shakes his head and answers. “Yeah boss?”

_ “You wanna tell me why Epsilon’s pouting?” _ At least she doesn’t sound pissed at him. If anything, her tone is closer to amused. 

“I honestly have no idea. Do you want to yell at me too?”

_ “I think I’m good. You’re going to have to show me some of those moves later.” _

Wash laughs and then regrets it as his ribs make it clear that they’re not fond of that. “No way. Knives are my thing. You get literally everything else, I’m keeping my tricks.”

_ “Brat. Fine.” _

Silence falls for a moment and the question nags at him. Taking a breath, he closes his eyes. “How many did we lose?”

_ “Wash--” _

“Boss,” he counters. There’s a rush of static as she sighs. 

_ “I’m not sure. We lost a few bikes and two jeeps, but we were able to pick up a few people from those. There’s at least two dozen injured. It’s hard to get a head count right now. I’ve got Epsilon working on a channel to the capital again, he should have something in another hour or so. I’m almost tempted to go without securing one, they clearly already know where we are.” _

“Yeah.” And Wash frowns again. “How did they find us? We were so careful.”

_ “I know. I’ve checked and no one was broadcasting on any channel they could have picked up on. Epsilon was monitoring everything back at the base.” _ She pauses for a moment.  _ “I think we have a leak.” _

“But how?”

_ “It must have been someone who went ahead with the generals--someone they trust.” _

Wash groans and rubs at the side of his helmet. “Perfect. That’s just what we need.”

_ “I’m going to see what I can find out from Kimball and Doyle, but I doubt we’ll be able to find the leak over the radio. You just take it easy, alright? I’m pretty sure it’s Donut’s turn to lecture you now.” _

“Carolina, don’t you dare--”

_ “What’s that, Wash? You’re breaking up,” _ she says, making static noises with her mouth before shutting off the channel. 

There’s instantly several pings and Wash sighs. Settling back as comfortably as he can get, he opens the shared channel with the Reds and Blues. They’re all talking at once and it’s impossible to make out anything. But the chatter is familiar and he’s pretty sure most of it doesn’t require any response. So he just lets the voices wash over him, eyes falling shut. 

They all made it again. At least there’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm so blown away by the comments on this fic, thank you all so much for the support! This is a chapter I've had written for a while and I've been really looking forward to posting it. Action scenes are a little tricky for me, so I really hope you all like the way this turned out!


	10. Maybe This Is Wishful Thinking

There’s a whole lot of screaming when they open a channel to the capital. Apparently Kimball and Doyle have been trying to get through for days. Because there’s definitely a leak, and they know exactly who it is. 

_“Cruz,”_ Kimball says, her voice full of quiet fury. _“Apparently the pirates promised her a ride off of Chorus is she agreed to give them the route. She knew we thought Sarpesha was clear.”_

Wash blows out a breath and leans back against the turret. He’s still in the back of Palomo and Jensen’s jeep. There’s too many injured for them to stop and get people back where they should be. The course has been changed too, risking a more direct route to cut the time down by two hours. They’ve already lost four more people without any medics to help. 

“I assume you’ve got her locked up?”

There’s an affirmative grunt. _“She’s not going anywhere. Don’t worry about Cruz, just get the rest of our people here in one piece."_

The radio cuts out suddenly and Wash knows better than to be offended. The general sounds ready to fight the entire galaxy right now. Cruz is probably half locked up for her own safety. 

Kimball meets them with Dr. Grey and a small assortment of medical vehicles two hours from the capital. Wash hops out of the back of the jeep to help load people up and almost falls on on his face. A motorcycle pulls to a stop nearby and he’s not entirely surprised to find Ortega rushing over to help steady him. 

“Thank you, Private, I’m alright.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m pretty sure you’re not. Let me help you over to the medical transport.”

“I don’t need--”

“Wash.” And he stiffens, because Carolina never learned how to approach people like a normal human. She moves to his other side, pulling his arm over his shoulders. “C’mon Ortega, let’s get him loaded up with the others.”

“But boss--”

“Dude, you almost just ate shit trying to get out of a car,” Epsilon pipes up helpfully. For some reason, he insists on floating along just in front of Wash’s face. “Tucker’s going too.”

There’s instantly a stab of panic. “Did the healing unit not--”

“It’s working just fine, calm down you big baby,” Epsilon says flippantly, though there’s something familiar there that Wash doesn’t want to dwell on. “The jackass just won’t sit still and an actual medic should probably give him a check up. Plus, he wants to stay with that Karimi kid. I guess they’re bonding or whatever.” 

“I’m riding the rest of the way with Caboose and Kimball,” says Carolina as they reach one of the transport vehicles. They’re kind of massive, which is probably a good thing given how many injured they have. Two dozen had been a very low estimate. Kimball is somewhere still going through a list to see who they’re missing. Wash almost doesn’t want to see the numbers when they finally get it sorted out. 

Carolina and Ortega all but drag him into the transport, which looks like a cramped, mobile infirmary. The beds are bolted down, most of them already occupied. Wash spots Dr. Grey moving from one bed to another with shocking speed, medics and nurses trailing after her. After insisting that he doesn’t need a bed, because someone else will definitely need it more, Carolina and Ortega reluctantly bring him over to two already occupied beds. 

Tucker’s sitting up on one, looking less than pleased to be there, already stripped out of his armor to the waist, bandages wrapped around his middle. He’s talking to the person in the other bed, who Wash determines must be Karimi based on the armor tucked neatly under her bed. She looks even tinier out of it. Her hair is long, dyed a vibrant magenta and worked into dozens of neat, tiny braids. There’s a worrying sheen to her dark skin, but her eyes are still bright and alive as she chats animatedly with Tucker and the medic, who’s setting up equipment around her. 

She looks up and grins when they approach. “Hey, you’re really not dead! Guess I owe you twenty bucks, Ortega. What hap--Jesus fuck, Jamie, would you stop sticking me?”

The medic flicks Karimi’s forehead. “I’d stop sticking you if you would just sit still and let me find a vein.”

Tucker’s frowning, hopping off the bed to look Wash over. “The fuck did you do to yourself now?”

“Nothing! Why do you assume I did something?”

“Cause you always do something,” Tucker says, crossing his arms over his chest, the motion drawing Wash’s eyes. His heart skips a beat and his blood runs cold. There, stretching across Tucker’s collarbone, is a deep gray handprint, one that he’d know anywhere. His mark. 

But he’s been careful. Except… except that he hasn’t. Lately he’s been slipping, letting Tucker get close, reaching for him. Drawing him in because he’s desperate to hold him there. And it has to stop. 

Because all that mark does is hurt people. 

There’s others there too, and it’s not like this is the first time he’s seen Tucker out of armor. Back at the crash site he had seen a lot more of Tucker than he meant to multiple times. Although he hadn’t paid too much attention to the marks, his eyes drawn, well… elsewhere. Because all the forcing down of certain urges hasn’t made them go away completely. 

He’s vaguely aware of Carolina saying something at his side, and it’s a little shake from her that makes him blink back to reality. Tucker reaches up and lightly taps a fist against his visor. “You alright in there, man?”

“Yeah--yeah, I’m fine.”

Wash has never felt four people roll their eyes at him at the same time before. Although it’s almost certainly not the first time it’s happened. The medic, apparently having found a vein, edges around Karimi’s bed toward him. “I’ll be the judge of that. Jamie Song, at your service, sir. If you two would just set him down, I’ll have a look.”

Carolina and Ortega ease him over to Tucker’s bed and he tries to hide his slight stumble when they let go before he sits. He takes his helmet off when asked and Carolina presses a hand to her visor as Tucker curses. “Dude, what the fuck?”

He just blinks. “What?” 

Tucker sighs and reaches over to run a hand through his hair, a motion that he realizes too late he should jerk away from. Wash isn’t sure why he’s surprised when it comes away bloody. He reaches up, but the medic gently bats his hands away as she moves to examine it herself. “Oh boy,” she says, letting out a low whistle. “Looks like you must’ve smacked your head around a few times.”

Wash’s brow furrows. “I… guess it must’ve happened when I fell off the truck. Or got hit by the car. I didn’t really notice.” 

Song seems to be staring at him, her hands hovering awkwardly. “You got hit by a car? And you’re still conscious?”

“Dr. Song, you would not believe what Agent Washington walked away from,” says Ortega, sounding fairly impressed. 

“I’ll bet. And I’m not a doctor, just a medic. But I’ll make sure Agent Washington gets patched up, just leave it to me,” she says, offering Carolina a salute. 

“I’ll leave them both in your capable hands, Private Song. C’mon, Ortega, we need to get ready to get moving again,” she says, clapping Wash on the shoulder before turning on her heel and heading back to work. 

Ortega lingers for a minute, inching over toward Karimi’s bed. “Hey, uh… you feel better, yeah?”

Karimi huffs and rolls her eyes, but the corner of her lips twitches upward. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine, dumbass. You just make sure you drive straight this time.”

He nods and then reaches out, hand awkwardly hovering for a moment before he lightly pats her foot. Turning, he salutes Wash and Tucker and then heads out after Carolina. Tucker snorts and turns toward Karimi with raised eyebrows. “What was that about?”

“Dunno, dude’s being weird. He was all freaked when I got shot--it’s stupid,” she says dismissively, but there’s something a little off about her tone as she crosses her arms over her chest and stares at the floor. 

A light tap on his chest plate pulls Wash’s attention back to Song. “Agent Washington, I’m going to need you to get out of armor so I can check for other injuries.”

“There’s nothing too bad. I think I have a few broken ribs and there’s a few cuts, but--”

“I still need you out of armor so I can treat you properly. If you’d like, I can pull over a privacy curtain or move you to a different bed.” From her tone, Wash is pretty sure he’s not getting out of this. He lets out a breath and stands, grabbing at the bed to keep himself steady as he takes his armor off piece by piece. Careful to keep his back to Tucker, who’s busy interrogating Karimi, Wash peels his undersuit down to his waist. 

Song hums to herself as she runs a scanner over his chest and goes through several basic checks, making him follow her finger with his eyes, checking his pulse, before she grabs bandages and antiseptic to deal with his cuts.  

“I really don’t need to stay here,” he says, glancing past her toward the exit. They’re still loading people on, so if he could just get past her and back to the cars…

“Nuh uh.” Song throws her arms wide like he’s going to make a break for it right then. “Dr. Grey!” she yells over her shoulder. 

In less than an instant, Dr. Grey materializes at her shoulder. “Yes sweetie?”

“Agent Washington isn’t respecting my authority and Agent Carolina’s going to rip out my spine and beat me with it if he leaves,” Song says, sounding genuinely panicked, her words rushing together with impressive speed.

“I’m not--she wouldn’t--” Wash tries to say, holding his hands up in surrender. 

Dr. Grey seems unphased, peering over Song’s shoulder to examine her scanner. “Now Wash, we wouldn’t want that. So why don’t you just get back into bed with Captain Tucker and get nice and comfortable, because you’re certainly not going anywhere with your injuries.”

“Bow chicka bow wow.”

“Not helpful,” he hisses to Tucker over his shoulder, who just shoots him a grin. 

Between the two of them, Dr. Grey and Song get him bandaged up and give him a scrub top to painfully wiggle into before he reluctantly hops back onto the bed, making sure to keep about a foot of space between him and Tucker. The space vanishes in the course of a minute, Tucker’s arm brushing against him. He’s still talking with Karimi, although she seems to be waning, her head on a pile of pillows. 

Wash keeps casting glances toward the exit, and can’t stop himself sighing when it closes as the last of the injured from the convoy is loaded up. There’s a soft tug at his sleeve and he turns to blink at Tucker. He’s making a face that Wash can’t quite read. “Dude, I know being stuck here sucks, but it’s just gonna be two hours. Just relax a little.”

He nods, but he’s pretty sure relaxing is the last thing he’s about to do. Glancing over at Karimi, he finds her eyes have fallen shut, the monitor beside her beeping softly as she sleeps, curled on her side. 

“Kid’s gotta be exhausted,” Tucker says softly. Out of the corner of his eye, Wash can’t miss the worry etched into his face. “Told me even before she got shot she was pushing a day and a half without sleep.”

“She’ll be safe in the capital.” Wash finds himself glancing around the transport, mentally counting all the taken beds. “They all will.”

“Sure fucking hope so. Tired of all this bullshit.” Tucker is closer still now, leaning his head against Wash’s shoulder. 

He hesitates, hand half rising before he forces it back down. Maybe it shouldn’t matter. The mark’s already there, glaring at him from Tucker’s chest. He settles for awkwardly patting Tucker’s back with a closed fist. “You should get some rest too.”

Tucker pulls away a little, one eyebrow rising as he looks up at him. “Okay, why are you being all weird?”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you definitely are. What’s the deal?”

“It’s nothing.” But he can’t stop the way his eyes flit to the mark on Tucker’s chest. Wash looks away quickly, but not quite fast enough. Tucker follows his gaze and goes still. 

“Oh.”

Wash awkwardly clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck, fingers skirting around the edges of his implants. For a second, he almost asks why Tucker never mentioned it. But that’s the least fair question in the world given all the ones he’s keeping to himself. Tucker definitely knows it’s his judging by that silence. 

“I was gonna tell you, Wash,” he says slowly. 

“It’s alright, I… there hasn’t been much time to talk about uh… that kind of thing.” Neither of them can look at the other. God this is weird. “When did… when did you know it was mine?”

He catches Tucker wincing. “Uh… remember that time with the nightmare? Guess, y’know, that’s the first time you grabbed me out of armor. That shit getting in the way always makes it more complicated, y’know?”

Swallowing thickly, Wash nods. “Tucker, I--”

“Dude, if you try to apologize, I’m gonna hit you.”

“I wasn’t going to!” And Wash looks away when his voice goes up a few octaves higher than he means it to, face suddenly slightly warm. “It’s just… I wish it hadn’t happened like that. I…”

He pauses, gnawing at the inside of his lip. What would it change if he told Tucker about his mark? They’re both still there. Tucker’s clearly known for a while and he hasn’t treated him any different, and Wash figured it out long before that. But then Tucker’s going to know just how long he kept quiet. 

Wash lets out a breath. Slowly, he taps at his own chest, just over his heart. “Yours uh… yours is here.”

For some reason, Tucker’s eyes light up. “No shit? Let me see.”

And he reaches to tug up Wash’s shirt and Wash scrambles, batting his hands away, grabbing at Tucker’s wrists. His entire face is burning now. “Stop that.”  

Tucker looks at him with a flat, unamused face. “C’mon, you’ve seen yours. It’s only fair, dude. Y’know… I don’t think I’ve  _ ever _ seen you without a shirt.”

There’s a reason for that. Several actually. But most of them probably don’t matter now. Wash casts a glance around the transport. No one’s paying them any attention. He hesitates and picks at the hem of the shirt for a moment before tugging it off, his ribs protesting the motion slightly, making him wince. 

Balling the shirt up in his hands, he can’t look at Tucker. He doesn’t want to know the face he’s making at all the scars, or the splashes of color spreading over almost sickly pale skin. 

“Dude, you’re fucking ripped.” It’s not what he expects, and he blinks a few times before finally managing to glance over. Tucker’s eyes aren’t on the handprints or the scars, but his abs. 

“Uh…” Wash has no idea what to do with that. 

“I mean, I guess I kinda figured you would be, but damn Wash.” And then Tucker’s hand is on his stomach, tracing the lines of his muscles and Wash has to stare at the ceiling, vaguely wondering which particular fuck up the universe is punishing him for in that moment. His face is burning and his gut is twisting in a way that’s not altogether unpleasant, but he needs to shut that down right fucking now. 

“Thank you?” he says, because he has no idea what else he’s supposed to say to that. 

Tucker’s fingers skim over old scars and Wash fights back a shiver. Don’t think about it. Just count the lights in the ceiling. He gets to fifteen when Tucker finally lets his hand settle over the aqua mark and his brain just short circuits completely. His breath catches in his throat and his eyes slip shut. Fire surges through his veins, his hair standing on end. He moves without thinking, hand covering Tucker’s keeping it pressed tight to the mark. 

“Wash?”

Forcing his eyes open, Wash looks at Tucker. At some point, he turned toward him, one of his legs pulled up onto the bed. He’s leaning closer, they both are. Wash’s eyes flit over Tucker’s face. His brow is slightly furrowed, eyes wide and curious, mouth half open, warm full lips parted and inviting. 

“Wait… what are you doing?”

Wash shakes his head faintly because he has no fucking idea, but he’s still moving and he can’t stop. And he’s going to ruin everything. He needs to stop, he has to stop. 

“Alrighty, how are we doing over here--oh my!”

Dr. Grey’s voice chimes in suddenly and saves him. Wash jumps up from the bed, nearly stumbling, catching himself with a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Bathroom,” he says, eloquently, “I need to--is there a--”

She wordlessly points to a door toward the back of the transport. 

“Thank you,” Wash says, not entirely sure why it comes out as a whisper, but then he’s off and moving, staring straight ahead until he’s closed himself into the tiny boxed off room. It’s not until he locks the door that he remembers how to fucking breathe again. There’s not much to the room. Just a toilet, a sink built into the wall, and a small mirror. 

He puts the lid down and sits on the edge of it, leaning over to press his face into his hands. God. What the fuck was he thinking? Well, he hadn’t been thinking much. That’s probably half the problem. He had been so close--too fucking close. 

Tucker’s his friend. One of the best friends he’s ever had, and he had almost destroyed that with one stupid moment. It’s the goddamn mark, he notes, sitting up to glare down at it. He hasn’t felt something like that since Maine. But it wasn’t quite the same. The fire was different, it didn’t feel like it might burn him from the inside out if he took too long to pull away. Somehow that’s almost a relief. Still, he can’t let that happen again. Tucker doesn’t need to deal with his stupid… his stupid crush. Because that’s what it is. He can admit that much. 

Wash runs the words through his head. He has a crush on Tucker. God, it sounds so fucking juvenile like that, but he can’t think of a better way to put it. He wants to lean into those touches, play with his hair, hold Tucker’s goddamn hand, give him a few other things to do with that smart mouth of his. Fuck. He shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of nonsense anymore. For fuck’s sake, he’s nearly forty, he shouldn’t be losing his self-control over a stupid crush. 

Standing, Wash turns on the sink and splashes some cold water on his face. Straightening up, he stares at himself in the mirror. At least his face isn’t red anymore. No, he’s gone almost paler than usual now, freckles standing out starkly in between the scars and the dark, heavy circles under his eyes. He looks fucking terrible. Good. He can work with that. 

He takes a few steadying breaths before leaving the tiny safe haven and making his way down the rows of beds. Dr. Grey’s busying herself checking over Karimi’s vitals. Tucker’s sitting cross legged at the head of his bed, leaning back against the pillows, arms crossed over his chest. Wash casually sits at the foot of the bed, making sure to leave space between them. And this time he’s going to make sure it stays there. 

“Sorry for running off. I just… wasn’t feeling well,” he says, feeling like he has to explain himself. Because that definitely looked weird. 

“That’s alright, Wash. Are you feeling motion sick?” Dr. Grey asks him gently. There’s something a little off about her tone, although he can’t quite figure out what. For some reason Tucker’s shooting her an extremely dirty look and Wash is pretty sure he missed something. 

But he takes the out she gives him and just nods. “Yeah, I think that must be it.”

Tucker snorts and Wash cocks an eyebrow at him. “Right, cause you get motion sickness in this stupid tank, but you can handle a knife fight on a moving truck?”

Wash shoots a glare at him, but his attention is quickly pulled away when Dr. Grey steps close to give him a quick once over. 

“I’ll want to give you a full physical once we get to Armonia, but I don’t think you’ll need to spend any time cooped up in the hospital after we arrive. Of course, you’ve going to have to take it easy until those ribs of yours are a little less bruised,” she says, cheery as ever, lightly tapping the end of his nose. Wash scrunches his face up automatically and she laughs. 

“Thank you, doctor--uh, Emily. I’ll try not to get hit by anymore cars for a while.”

“Good, that’s what I like to hear.” She lightly pats his cheek and then heads on her way to the next bed. 

He can feel Tucker staring, but he ignores it for a few long moments, instead looking just about anywhere else. Finally, after he’s counted all the tiles in the floor and the lights in the ceiling, there’s nowhere else to look. 

“What Tucker?”

“How long did you know?” At least he cuts right to the chase. He doesn’t sound angry exactly, but it’s pretty clear what he means. Wash debates playing dumb for a moment before sighing. 

“Before we found Epsilon. There was that camp we took, I got shot earlier and I was… I was having headaches.”

He risks a glance at Tucker. There’s a furrowed brow and a frown there, but he doesn't seem angry. Well, not just yet anyway. Tucker’s making a face. “Dude that was… that was like a year ago. And you just didn’t say anything?”

Wash winces and rubs at the back of his neck. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Seriously? You think this is the kinda shit that would bother me? What’s--” But then Tucker cuts himself off and makes a frustrated noise. 

Glancing over, Wash watches him closely. He’s still perched on the edge of the bed, ready to spring up and move away at any moment. If Tucker’s upset, he’s definitely not staying put. But he doesn’t look angry. He’s looking at Wash, brow furrowed, arms crossed. And then he sighs. 

“I keep forgetting,” he says slowly, eyes flicking away. “Lately, things have been okay, I guess--as okay as they ever get, I mean. But you… you still act like I’m gonna lose my shit if you piss me off or do something wrong.”

Tucker’s sitting up and moving closer, but Wash can’t move. There’s a hesitance as Tucker draws closer, his hand outstretched, eyes flicking to Wash’s face as he slowly reaches up to wind his fingers into Wash’s hair. A gentle tug has him leaning in until his head comes to rest on Tucker’s shoulder. It’s a little awkward, but they shift until it’s better, Wash’s legs up on the bed, curled against Tucker’s side, hands still fidgeting in his lap. 

Fingers move gently through his hair, and Wash’s eyes fall shut. Tucker’s cheek is pressed against the top of his head, the breath he lets out a soft gust. “You know I’m not gonna right?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not gonna freak out on you for little shit. You… you get that right?”

Wash nods, because he does. He really does. The Reds and Blues like to scream and panic and pick fights over tiny things, but where it matters, where it counts, somehow, they understand. 

“I don’t know if I would call this something little though,” he says slowly, not willing to move to risk a glance at Tucker’s face. 

“Well, I mean, yeah, okay it’s kinda big, but… I wasn’t rushing to tell you either.” Tucker’s nails gently scratch over his scalp. It’s nice. Really nice. And he tries not to move with him as Tucker settles back against the pillows, but there’s nowhere else he’d rather go. 

Wash ends up with his head resting on Tucker’s chest lying half on top of him, going boneless against him as Tucker works the knots out of his too long hair. There’s not exactly enough room for two people on one bed, but they make it work, legs tangled together. Maybe it’s because Wash has gotten about four hours of sleep total in the last three days, but he finds himself fighting to keep his eyes open. 

“M’sorry,” he mutters, working to stay awake. 

But Tucker scoffs, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “It’s fine. No, seriously. I get it, alright? You’ve got all those fun Freelancer issues going on, yeah? Takes you longer to trust people and stuff.”

His hand has somehow landed on Tucker’s side, resting almost protectively over the bandages. Wash’s thumb brushes along the edge, where gauze meets skin and he’s half sure Tucker shivers under him for some reason. “I do trust you,” he says, because it feels important. 

“I know, Wash.” And Tucker’s hand gently cups the implants at the nape of his neck and Wash doesn’t feel the need to jerk away. It’s almost comforting. Tucker won’t hurt him, he’ll keep him safe. “Now just try and get some sleep, asshole.”

Wash hums and absently nuzzles Tucker’s chest. There’s only an hour or so until they get there, might as well sleep while he can. 

* * *

Wash ends up getting a few more hours of sleep than expected. Apparently Dr. Grey had thought that both he and Tucker needed the rest, so they get some time alone on the mobile infirmary before Caboose bursts into show them to the rooms he’s picked out for the three of them. At least Caboose doesn’t notice the way Wash can’t quite look at Tucker after waking up curled around him.

There’s a lot of empty buildings in the capital. It’s a little eerie, seeing all the places people should be. The people left have all grouped up close, living in fortified buildings in the center of the city. Somehow it’s not exactly a surprise that the rebels don’t want to cosy up with the Feds. They take several buildings a few blocks away, close enough that they can get to the important things with ease, but far enough that they have a bit of breathing room. 

The building Caboose leads them to is just about in the middle of the two. It looks like it might have been a dorm building at one point, but Wash really doesn’t want to think too much about what any of the capital was before. The Reds and Carolina are already there, which isn’t really a surprise. Caboose has apparently called dibs on the second floor, something about two rhyming with blue, and picked out three rooms in the same hall for them. 

The Reds and Carolina take the third floor, something about the higher ground and a tactical advantage according to Sarge. He’s not entirely sure why Carolina’s going with them. 

“We called dibs,” says Grif, leaning back against the wall as Simmons lugs box after box up the stairs. “Blue Team’s already had two Freelancers--three if you count that Flowers guy, I guess. It’s only fair we finally get one.”

Wash glances past him to Carolina, who’s busy giving the ground floor yet another security sweep. She’d already gone over it twice before letting any of them take a step inside. At this point, he’s pretty sure she’s just looking for something to do since it had taken her all of ten minutes to move in her one, small box of possessions. Not that Wash was much better. He had taken a few minutes to hang up the borrowed clothes he’s accumulated and then triple checked the lock on the window. 

He’s honestly curious just how the Reds and Blues all seem to have so much to move in. It seems like some of the boxes have to be for show. Or they’ve just gone out of their way to pick up new things at every opportunity. 

“Besides,” Grif says, pulling Wash out of his thoughts. “She even dyes her hair red, pretty sure that makes her one of us.”

“I suppose I can see that,” Wash says, nodding. It makes as much sense as anything else about Red Team. “Have you told Carolina about her team?”

“Not yet, Sarge’s planning the initiation still. Don’t be surprised if he asks you for some blood later. Donut already found some grape juice, but he’s at least gotta try to get some actual blue blood.”

Wash nods slowly, deciding it’s best not to question that. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I have any to spare.”

“No fucking kidding.”

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

Grif rolls his eyes. “Dude, with how often you take a beating, I don’t fucking know how there’s any of you left.”

For some reason, he sounds strangely irritated as he says it. “I mean, how many times have you been hit with a car?”

Wash tips his head to one side and Grif jolts a little, one dark eyebrow and one ginger flying toward his hairline. “Do you actually have to think about it? Jesus fucking Christ.”

“It hasn’t been that many. Just… four. No, wait, five now,” Wash says, trying not to wince. 

Grif just stares at him incredulously for a moment before shaking his head. “You know that getting hit by a car  _ once _ is a lot for most people, right? It’s important to me that you know that.”

“I mean… I guess it does sound like a lot when I say it out loud,” Wash says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

With a huff, Grif rolls his eyes. “Just don’t go playing dodge car again any time soon, asshole. Some of us actually like having you in one piece.”

And then Grif affectionately punches his arm before heading off to go make sure his food stash made it into his new room. Wash feels himself smiling as he rubs the spot, which actually stings a little, because Grif’s still in his armor and Wash isn’t allowed to put his back on yet. He’s not untouchable anymore. And for a brief moment, it doesn’t feel like a bad thing. 

* * *

There’s still more to do. There always is. Armonia is safe with the massive wall and carefully maintained defenses, but that doesn’t mean things are any simpler inside.

Wash is called to a meeting the second day after they arrive. He’s pretty sure the generals only waited that long because of some gently threatening messages from Dr. Grey, who’s still hiding his armor somewhere. But at least he’s not the only one that’s forced to go without it. 

Kimball looks about as uncomfortable as he feels, both of them in plain clothes as they walk through the building she’s taken as the New Republic’s main headquarters. Her dark curls are held back from her face by a thick headband. Wash idly realizes that this is the first time he’s seen her without a helmet. She’s younger than he expects, maybe few years younger than him if he were to guess, though there’s frown lines here and there along with a massive scar that stretches from the corner of one eye down through her upper lip. 

“It was General Doyle’s idea. He thinks that going without armor will make us seem more… united. It’s less obvious who’s a Fed or a rebel this way,” she says, tone carefully even, though that alone gives him a pretty good idea just what she thinks of the policy. 

Wash nods slowly. “It’s not a bad thought in theory.”

But he’s pretty sure that Feds and rebels have a sort of sixth sense for who’s on what side. They’re still separate for all that they’ve come together. Everyone travels in groups, sticking to the parts of the city they’ve claimed as theirs. The Feds seem to enjoy flaunting the fact that they know Armonia better, like they can’t quite let go of it as ‘their city’. And of course the rebels are responding with the utmost level of maturity, Wash has noted, having past seven buildings covered in toilet paper and silly string on his way there. 

Where they even got silly string, he doesn’t want to hazard a guess. 

“The troops do seem to like getting to wear whatever they want,” Kimball says grudgingly. “If it improves morale, that’s all that matters.” 

The people out of armor do look to be enjoying the change. Wash spots plenty of rebels wearing all manner of things as Kimball walks him through the building. It looks as though it was once some sort of office building. There’s a sign outside that’s been so thoroughly battered and beaten that the words are impossible to make out, but he’s guessing it might have been some sort of architecture firm judging by all the pictures and paintings of buildings hung in just about every room. 

Kimball pulls her datapad from a pouch at her hip as she leads the way toward her office. “Doyle’s supposed to meet us in ten minutes, and Carolina should be along in fifteen.”

So he only has to survive the generals on his own for five minutes. Alright, he can probably manage that much. They round the corner to a small waiting room filled with a seemingly random assortment of chairs and a small desk against the far wall, just next to the doors that presumably lead to Kimball’s office. A young man is very intently wiping down the desk with a small hand towel and a bottle of disinfectant. 

There’s a very, very faint sigh from Kimball before she clears her throat loudly enough to get the rebel’s attention. He jerks up with a start, blinking owlishly at both of them before straightening out his already impeccably ironed shirt. His hair is bleached so blonde it’s almost white, very square glasses sit on a round, pale face, and he pulls a small bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket, rubbing a liberal amount between his palms before offering a salute. 

“Agent Washington. This is Lieutenant Lewis Green, my… new assistant,” Kimball says, motioning for Green to drop the salute. 

“Pleasure to meet you, soldier.” Wash offers his hand. 

Green eyes it for a moment. “And you, sir. Uh… you haven’t been exposed to any viruses in the last six months have you? Some diseases have a frighteningly long incubation period.”

Wash blinks as Kimball lets out a breath and pinches the bridge of her nose. “None that I’m aware of.”

“You’re not from Chorus, right? Is there a chance you could be carrying off world germs that--”

“For the love of god--Lewis just shake his damn hand,” Kimball snaps, sounding as though she’s seen this conversation several dozen times. 

Green does, with a brief, limp handshake, quickly dropping it to apply even more hand sanitizer to his palms. “General Kimball, germs are a very serious matter, particularly with our forces already so few in number--”

“I know, Lewis. Just… just go back to work. General Doyle should be here soon, send him in once he arrives.” And with that, she strides past Green and into her office. Wash follows, glancing back at the lieutenant, who seems content to go back to scrubbing down his desk. 

Kimball shuts the door behind them and Wash can’t quite fight back the flinch that comes with that, though if the general notices it, she doesn’t mention it. She motions for Wash to take one of the chairs on the other side of the massive oak desk as she walks around to the other side of it. The office is rather impressive, with large windows that make Wash fidget in his seat. He scans the view outside, spotting six perfect sniping locations before he forces himself to stop.

He very nearly misses what Kimball’s saying. “I’m sorry about Green. He means well he just has… some issues. When he manages to focus, he’s good at keeping things organized. The new environment has made him a little more anxious than usual, I’m hoping he’ll adjust to things soon though.”

“I’m sure he will,” Wash says, not at all sure of that in the slightest. “I can understand being uncomfortable in a new place.”

“He’s a good kid. They all are,” she says, a touch of fondness creeping into her tone. “They may not always act like it, but they mean well. Speaking of which, I’ve been informed that you’ve met Private Karimi. She seemed very impressed with the way you handled Felix on the trip here.”

“She talked to you about that?” Wash blinks in slight surprise. 

“That she did. You certainly know how to make an impression, Agent Washington.” And there’s a little smile playing around her lips. “I don’t say this to influence your decision, but I’ve talked to several cadets and they all seem rather excited by the prospect of training with you.”

Wash sucks in a deep breath and nods. “Well, I suppose they’re in luck then.”

Something in Kimball’s eyes lights up, only the faintest hint of surprise on her face. “So you’re agreeing to train them?”

“As soon as Dr. Grey clears me for it, I would be happy to train your troops and General Doyle’s. All I ask is that you leave the scheduling to me.” 

Kimball nods. “That sounds perfectly reasonable. Thank you, Agent Washington.”

Wash holds up a hand. “Please General, don’t thank me yet. I’ve told you before, I don’t claim to be an expert, but I’ll do what I can. I would like to get your input though. You know your men better than I do.”

They chat pleasantly enough, Wash taking down notes as Kimball goes over potential problems, squads that work well together, and more experienced fighters. But of course it doesn’t last. Blustering shouts give them two seconds of warning before the doors fly open. Wash leaps out of his seat on impulse, grabbing the closest item on Kimball’s desk as he turns to face the intruder. 

“General Kimball what is the meaning of--oh my, Agent Washington, I’m so, so sorry.” Doyle instantly goes from blustering to crumbling, stepping back, nearly toppling over the young woman trailing behind him. “Goodness, very sorry about that, Sinclair.”

“It’s alright, sir, no harm done.”

Wash takes a breath, forcing the tension away as he sets the stapler back onto Kimball’s desk and does his best to look like a functional human being. “I’m the one that should be apologizing, General. It’s good to see you again.”

Although he’s never actually seen Doyle’s face before either. Like Kimball, he’s younger than Wash expects. His eyes are bright blue above a ginger mustache that’s almost frighteningly reminiscent of Wyoming, and it looks as though he hasn’t seen the sun in a very, very long time. 

“And you as well, my dear, Agent Washington,” Doyle says, grabbing one of Wash’s hands firmly between both of his and gently squeezing. “I was so relieved to hear that you had made it to Armonia in one piece, particularly after that horrific attack. Oh, and allow me to introduce my assistant, Corporal Jenny Sinclair.”

Doyle steps to one side, ushering the young woman forward. She adjusts her glasses and fixes a smile into place before reaching out a hand. Her long red hair is piled atop her head in a neat braid, her startling green eyes making him feel as though he’s looking at a miniature Carolina, the firm grip of her handshake only reinforcing that. “It’s very nice to meet you, sir. I’ve heard nothing but good things from the General and Corporal Park.”

“You’re a friend of Park’s? How is she? I haven’t had a chance to see her since we arrived.” Wash is almost certain that her name wasn’t on the unfortunately long list of those lost in the raid on the convoy. 

Sinclair’s smile brightens. “She’s doing well, sir. I’m sure she’ll be happy to know you asked about her.”

“Ah yes, Park and Sinclair have been more or less running things here while I’ve been busy orchestrating this truce,” Doyle says, clapping Sinclair on the shoulder fondly. “They are such a wonderful help, I’m sure you’ll have a chance to work closely with both of them.”

“Oh thank you, sir.” Sinclair beams at him before letting her eyes drift away, her expression faltering ever so slightly. She takes a steadying breath and carefully steps around Wash to offer her hand to Kimball. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, ma’am.”

There’s only a moment of hesitation, and to her credit, Kimball doesn’t so much as blink before taking Sinclair’s hand. “Thank you, Corporal. Well, now that we’re all properly acquainted, maybe we could get this meeting started?”

The steel in her tone is unmistakable. Already off to a good start. Wash moves to stand next to her desk, arms crossed behind his back, leaving the chairs in front of it open for Doyle and Sinclair. There’s a slight hesitation before they take them as Kimball shoots him an odd look. “Green,” she calls, the door to her office still open. “Bring another chair in here!”

“But I haven’t finished cleaning the ones in the waiting room! General, you don’t know where these have been!”

“They’re  _ chairs _ , Green, just pick one!” 

* * *

 

The argument about chairs is still going when Carolina arrives almost ten minutes later. She edges around the fight in the waiting room, which Doyle has joined in for some reason, and sidles up to Wash, nodding faintly at Sinclair, who offers a slightly awkward smile in turn. “I would apologize for being late, but…”

“I’m pretty sure they didn’t notice,” Wash says, trying to sound less like he’s about to laugh. 

Carolina doesn’t seem much more comfortable out of armor than he is, every inch of her screaming tension even as she perches on the edge of Kimball’s desk with a certain practiced grace. Arms crossed over her chest, she glances out into the waiting room. “We should probably try to mediate.”

Wash nods, but makes no move toward the door. “Probably… might want to give them a few more minutes though, maybe they’ll get it out of their systems.”

With a faint huff of a laugh, Carolina shakes her head. “I don’t think they could ever yell at each other that long.” She pauses, glancing at Sinclair again. “You’re Doyle’s assistant, right?”

“Yes, that would be me, ma’am. Jenny Sinclair, pleased to meet you,” she says, rising quickly and offering Carolina her hand. Wash notes a slightly odd look cross Carolina’s face, though it’s there for just the slightest of moments before she shake Sinclair’s hand. 

“Do you have the general’s itinerary for this meeting? Maybe there’s a few things we can get started on while they finish up out there.”

“Oh, well…” Sinclair hesitates, looking out toward the generals. 

“--your rampant disregard for the sanctity of my--”

“Your  _ what _ , Doyle? You know damn well--”

“I think there’s probably a few things we could go over,” Sinclair says, pulling out her datapad and scrolling through her notes. 

Between the three of them, they mostly work on deciding what to talk about first once the generals have screamed themselves hoarse. There’s quite a few grievances, but Wash is pretty sure Doyle’s airing those out in the waiting room, so they can probably be skipped. Eventually, when there’s a worrying thud, Carolina stalks out of the room and returns a moment later, both generals trailing after her, Doyle staring sheepishly at his hands, Kimball glaring furiously at the ceiling. 

They manage to keep the meeting somewhere close to civil, though it’s a near thing. Carolina stands at Kimball’s shoulder, hand going to her arm more than a few times. Wash lingers near Doyle, doing his best to interject when it seems necessary. The generals reluctantly agree on a few matters: having people dress down seems to be going well for the most part, separating the city into rebels and Feds was probably a terrible idea, though there are no solutions presented for that just yet, and it’s imperative that both armies begin training as soon as possible. 

On all other matters, things are a little less clear cut. Tensions and voices rise again until Doyle is leaping to his feet and Kimball does the same. Wash and Carolina move in the same instant, back to back between the pair of them. “Enough!” Carolina snaps, genuine anger creeping into her tone for the first time all meeting. “Everyone take a walk. Doyle with Wash, Kimball with me. Until you can both calm down, this meeting is on hold. Do I make myself clear?”

She doesn’t really have any authority here. Neither of them do, but there’s no denying the commanding tone when she takes it. Doyle’s shoulders slump a little and he slowly makes for the doors. Wash glances back at Carolina, finding her in a very intent staring contest with Kimball. Probably better not to interrupt. 

“Sinclair, you might want to sit in the waiting room for a while,” he says gently before moving to the general’s side and leading him from the room. 

Maybe it’s because voices really seem to carry in this place, but the building seems almost empty when they start wandering the hallways. Wash keeps his strides even with Doyle, watching him from the corner of his eye as they wind their way absently through empty hallways. He should probably say something, but he has no idea where to start. 

Eventually, Doyle veers into what looks to be a long abandoned meeting room, a long table taking up most of the space, though there’s no chairs to speak of. There’s an enormous window taking up most of one wall. Doyle sighs as he approaches it, looking out over the city, hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t mean to get so cross with her,” he says, after a long moment. “I know it’s the last thing anyone needs.”

Wash draws close, walking around the table to stand at his side. “It’s understandable. You’ve been fighting for so long, I can see how it would be difficult to do anything else.”

“Yes… but I owe it to my people to be better.” Doyle’s eyes are downcast, his shoulders slumped. “They deserve a leader who can get things done.”

He lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “I admire her, you know. We fight because she refuses to bend. She knows what’s best for the New Republic and she will stop at nothing to get it. The most I can do is distract her with petty issues and minor quibbles to stop her getting her way. I’m not a soldier, Agent Washington… I don’t know how to fight for my people.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be fighting.” Wash meets Doyle’s surprised look with an even one, allowing the faintest hint of a smile onto his face. “Kimball knows what she’s want, but being forceful and uncompromising doesn’t make someone a better leader. You both have strengths and weaknesses.”

“I fail to see myself having much of the former… with all due respect, of course,” Doyle adds hastily, gaze turning a little wary for a moment. “Perhaps you would be better suited to argue the points I’ve laid out?”

“General… I’m here to help you  _ and _ Kimball, not to take your place.” He pauses, letting his gaze drift back out the window. “Besides, leading doesn’t come naturally to me either.”

Doyle scoffs. “Nonsense, I’ve seen you with the troops, Agent Washington. You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit.”

“Maybe that’s something we have in common. It’s… hard to look at yourself and see the good things. I still can’t most of the time.” He lets out a silent sigh, glancing down at his hands. The right curls into a fist so he can’t see the mottled mess on his skin. “We need other people to see our strengths before we’ve got a chance at believing them.”

Exhaling through his nose, Doyle slowly looks over at him, one eyebrow rising. “So what, pray tell, could you possibly see when you look at me, Agent Washington?”

“I see a coward,” Wash says honestly. Doyle blanches, but doesn’t interrupt. “But that’s not a bad thing. I see someone who knows when to turn and run. I see a man who continues to strive for at least some level of professionalism when it would be so much easier to throw all of that away. But more than that, I see a man who cares so much for his people that he’ll take a job that scares him half to death and do his best to make it his own. You’re braver than you know, Doyle, you just need to figure out how to put that to use.”

“I…” Doyle swallows hard and turns away, looking out the window as he blinks rapidly and Wash is suddenly very uncomfortable. Oh god, is he going to cry? Wash and tears don’t mix, they never have. But Doyle finds his voice before Wash has to jump out the window. “Thank you, Agent Washington. I’m… well, I’m not quite certain I believe you, but that… it’s very kind of you to say such things.” 

There’s a waver to his voice, but he’s not crying. Yet. Wash can probably handle that. “Of course, general. And… you can just call me Wash, if you like.”

Doyle’s eyes are definitely a little wet when he turns to look at Wash, but the corners crinkle, his mustache turning up with a surprisingly warm smile. “Thank you, Wash.”

And then Doyle’s arms are around his shoulders, his face pressed into the crook of Wash’s neck, shoulders shaking a little and Wash has no idea what he’s doing. His arms hover awkwardly at his sides for a moment before he manages a slow, hesitant pat to Doyle’s back. He at least doesn’t have to say much else. Doyle recovers rather quickly, dabbing at his eyes with a pocket handkerchief, which he has for some reason. It doesn’t take much coaxing from there for Wash to lead him back to Kimball’s office. 

There’s at least no more screaming for the rest of the meeting. Not much gets done, but they’re both trying, and that’s at least something. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a casual reminder that this is still a soulmark au. Thank you so much to everyone who's been commenting! It means so much and I love every single one of you! Also, just a few more OCs in the mix here with Song, Green, and Sinclair. I'm trying not to overload the story with them, but I hope you guys like my goobers, who I'm mostly using just so the armies are a little less faceless. And okay, I fully admit that the 'no armor in the city for morale' is an excuse to get people out of their helmets. There's only so many ways you can write 'so and so pulled off their helmet' before it feels like you're a broken record. But anyway, I really hope you guys like this!


	11. And It's All Too Quiet Now

It’s another week in Armonia before Wash is finally cleared to start training the troops. That’s not exactly a bad thing as it takes him almost that long to work out a decent schedule. Neither army is particularly large, but with all the notes and names and details both generals have given him, it’s clear that there’s quite a lot to manage. 

“I can’t remember why I agreed to this,” he says morosely, glaring down at his datapad. Half a bottle of wine hasn’t made finalizing the schedule any easier for some reason. 

Donut clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Because you want to help, Wash. And I think it’s great! I can’t wait to start training under you. You’re gonna work me so hard I won’t be able to walk straight the next day!”

He’s definitely been spending too much time with Donut lately, because Wash just snorts and takes another sip of wine. They’re in what was once some sort of lounge on the second floor of their building, which Sarge and Caboose have been fighting to name for days. Naturally, Sarge wants to call it Red Base, whereas Caboose is partial to Best Friends Forever Mountain. They’ve decided to have a vote on it, polls close tomorrow and Wash is pretty sure that the write in candidate ‘who gives a fuck’ is in the lead. It doesn’t quite feel like home, but it’s not bad. 

The lounge is about the size of two of the regular rooms put together, with a small kitchen area in one corner and a few beaten up couches and chairs taking up the rest of the space. Wash is on one couch, his legs stretched out, feet resting on Donut’s lap, who’s carefully applying blue and yellow nail polish to his toes. Caboose is on the floor, leaning back against the couch, head pressed to Wash’s knee. They’ve set up a little space heater, the soft orange glow lighting up the room like a campfire. 

Against all reason, it’s comfortable. 

Wash’s eyes flick over the schedule again, brow furrowing. “Caboose, are you sure you’re okay training with Carolina?”

Caboose nods, eyes still on the datapad in his lap. “Oh yes. I think it will be a lot of fun, and she will have Church with her, so we can have best friend times.”

“Right, but are you sure it won’t be a little… intense for you? Carolina isn’t one to pull her punches.” Wash is pretty sure she wouldn’t intentionally hurt Caboose in training, but she gets frustrated so quickly, and… well, training Caboose isn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world. 

Caboose absently reaches up to pat Wash’s knee. “It’s okay, Wash. I know that Carolina only acts like a mean lady because she is a sad lady, and sometimes punching makes people less sad. I am pretty strong, so if she needs to have some sad punching, I am okay with that.”

Something clenches around Wash’s heart and he shifts a little, fingers itching. He wants to reach out, to gently grab Caboose by the shoulder or to ruffle his hair, but he hasn’t had quite enough wine to forget himself. So he gently nudges Caboose’s head with his knee. “You don’t have to do that, Caboose. And if anyone tries to take out their anger on you just… come talk to me about it, alright?”

“Okay,” Caboose says, nodding cheerily. But then he pauses, tapping at his chin. “But I am pretty sure that is what Church is doing when he talks to anyone ever. I know he usually doesn’t mean it, because we are best friends and best friends know these things, but he is made of anger and numbers and memories. And fireflies.”

“Uh, what?”

And then Caboose launches into an explanation, which then becomes a story about something he had done as a kid. Wash loses track of the rambling fairly quickly and glances over at Donut, who shrugs, but nods along with Caboose, asking questions here and there to nudge him along. 

Reluctantly, Wash enters lessons with Caboose and Carolina into the schedule. That’s one thing taken care of then. The Reds and Blues need training too, and… he’s pretty sure they can give out some tips of their own when it comes to survival. If they’ve made it this far, they’re obviously doing something right. 

Now, to figure out how the hell to talk them into that. Maybe they’ll feel better if they know they’re not the only ones who need some work. 

* * *

“I want you to show me that knife shit.”

Wash is still just staring, mouth slightly open. “Private Karimi, you should really be resting. Did you sneak out of the infirmary?”

When Caboose had told him that Karimi was out on the front steps of their building, Wash had rushed down, Donut right on his heels. He had meant to stop by the infirmary later that day. There were plenty of cadets still recovering from the trip. Two days before, he had spent nearly three hours signing casts and sighing as Tucker and Caboose recounted his fight with Felix for an audience of teenagers, who gasped and cheered at all the unnecessarily over dramatic moments. 

Alright, maybe Wash had found it sort of endearing, though the hugs he had been subjected to before he could escape were a little terrifying. A number of soldiers had asked if he could add knife skills (or combat whilst on a moving vehicle) to their training schedules. He had said no as gently as possible and quickly excused himself. 

But apparently that’s not enough to stop Karimi. 

She still looks small, standing just a few feet outside their door, arms crossed defiantly. A strangely placid looking Andersmith is at the foot of the steps, a wheelchair next to him, which Wash assumes he used to get Karimi there. 

“Private, you really shouldn’t be wandering around--”

“Grey let me out this morning. So are you gonna train me or not?” She cocks an eyebrow at him expectantly. 

Wash casts a sideways glance at Donut, who just shrugs unhelpfully. “I’m… not sure that’s wise, Karimi. You still need time to recover.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “I don’t mean right now, genius. I mean, uh, sir. But I saw the schedule, okay? I know some people are getting private lessons and shit, and I wanna learn how to use knives.”

Dragging a hand through his hair, Wash tries to think of legitimate reasons to say no. He could say something about ‘no preferential treatment’, but there’s plenty of other soldiers who are getting specialized training either with him or Carolina. There’s her injury, but somehow he doubts she’s going to let that slow her down. 

“Why?” he asks after a few long moments. “You do realize it’s not going to be all… dramatic fights on top of trucks.”

“I know, sir. But I still wanna learn. I’m…” She lets her eyes drop, hands tensing on her arms. “I’m not strong. I could barely hold that stupid rocket launcher. But I’m fucking fast. You give me a knife and let me get close to one of those pirates and they’re fucked.”

“I… don’t know.” Wash shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “It takes time to learn that sort of thing.”

She frowns, glaring up at him. “I know that. I’m not stupid, okay? But I wanna learn this shit. I don’t get why you’re being such a dick about this. I know you’re a hardass but… aren’t you supposed to wanna teach us?”

And there’s the problem, he still doesn’t honestly  _ want _ to. But he has to, and… he’s not certain he could let someone else take over the training now. That doesn’t change the fact that training children--because she’s young, so goddamn young--to fight makes his stomach turn. Putting a knife in her hand and sending her off to fight Felix would be little better than turning the blade on her himself. 

But if he doesn’t teach her, he’s got the distinct feeling that’s not going to stop her trying to learn. Wash sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Alright. But only once I hear from Dr. Grey personally that you’re cleared for training, and you promise me something.”

Her eyes have already lit up, lips slowly curling into a wide grin as she looks like she’s struggling not to bounce on the spot. “Shit yeah, what is it?”

“If you’re in combat, and you see Felix, you do not engage. Do I make myself clear?”

Karimi rolls her eyes again. “Uh yeah, no duh--”

“No. Private, I need you to promise me,” he says sharply. “It takes years to get to that level. I know you all like telling the story, but I barely kept up with him. If we’d been on solid ground and the fight had gone on much longer, things may have gone very differently. So, do I make myself clear?”

Standing up straighter, she nods firmly. There’s still that fierce determination, but it’s tempered now, cooling to hard steel in her eyes. “Yes, sir. I promise.”

Wash tries to keep his relief from being too obvious as he nods. “Good, now go get some rest. I’ll be expecting you ready for training as soon as Dr. Grey gives the word.”

Karimi’s practically beaming. She pumps a fist in the air and jumps a little before scampering down the steps, leaping off the last one at Andersmith, who catches her easily and sets her down in the chair. Turning back toward him, she waves. “This is gonna be fucking awesome! See you at training, sir!”

Watching them go, Wash sighs, leaning against the railing, absently rubbing at the back of his neck. “This is probably a mistake, isn’t it?”

Donut hums, soft footsteps drawing closer to Wash’s side. “Oh, I don’t know. It might be fun, Wash. She seems serious about it, so that’s good, right?”

“I suppose.” He still shifts on the spot uncertainly. “I just don’t like the idea of putting a knife in her hand and just sending her out there.”

“Well, you’re not.” Wash finds Donut looking at him with a slight frown on his face. “Isn’t that the whole point of training? Not everyone’s gonna want to charge into battle all slicked up with excitement without using protection.”

“I know, it just… doesn’t feel right.”

Donut’s hand lands gently on his arm. “But would you rather have someone else teach her instead?”

For a moment, Wash honestly thinks about it. Carolina could teach the troops hand to hand, but they need her out in the field. There’s a few older members of the army with experience, but they’ve have the mercenaries at their sides, not meeting them in battle. He sighs and shakes his head. 

“No, no I wouldn’t.”

Donut doesn’t say anything, but Wash isn’t particularly surprised to find a reassuring familiar weight pressing into his side as an arm wiggles around his waist. Very slowly, he leans over, resting his head on top of Donut’s as he takes a deep breath. This still doesn’t feel right, training teenagers, sending them into the line of fire, but he doesn’t want that burden on anyone else. 

And after all, he’s not just teaching them to fight, he’s teaching them to survive. Maybe that’s enough.

* * *

“Remind me again what the point of this is?” Wash keeps his face even at the agitation creeping into Kimball’s voice.

At least she’s not doing as bad as Doyle, who’s leaning heavily against a stack of mats wheezing like he’s run a marathon. Grif’s collapsed on the floor not far away. Those two are going to get along famously, he can already tell. Wash regards them both, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s important that the two of you keep in shape. And it’s good for morale for them to know that you’re training alongside their heroes.”

Kimball huffs and turns her glare away, going back to her weights, Carolina lightly patting her on the back, slightly smug smile on her face. Wash can’t begrudge her that. This particular training session had been her idea after all. Carolina had personally assessed both Kimball and Doyle’s fighting abilities and deemed them to be close enough to the level of the Reds and Blues that training together wouldn’t be detrimental to any of them. 

“Doyle’s worse than any of them by far,” she had said, “And Kimball’s a little better than some of them, butTucker’s got her beat in hand to hand. They could all learn from each other.”

Well, they’ve definitely all got plenty to learn, Wash can see that much. Doyle’s clearly never fired a gun in his life, but he’s a fast runner, so there’s some kind of potential there. And he’s still leaps and bounds ahead of Green. Kimball had suggested that the assistants train with them as well, hoping they could pass along what they see to the rest of the troops. It’s not a bad idea, exactly, just a few more factors to add in. 

They’ve all been warming up, although some of them seem to think that’s more than enough of a workout on it’s own. Wash brings his hands together for attention. “Alright, everyone, pair up for some basic hand to hand practice.”

Wash casually wanders around the group, gently nudging Doyle toward Green and Grif away from Simmons and Sarge. He turns and nearly jumps, finding Tucker just behind him, a wide grin on his face. “Ready to practice, Wash.”

“Uh.”

Tucker casually glances around. A little too casually.  “Looks like we don’t have an even number unless you jump in too, dude.”

He’s not wrong. Wash casts a glance around, checking the other pairs, finding Carolina squaring up with Donut of all people, and Kimball standing rather uncertainly in front of Sarge. Caboose and a panicked looking Simmons give him pause, but he’s not sure pairing either of them with Grif or Sinclair would be much better. 

Slowly, he turns back toward Tucker, who’s definitely grinning even wider now. Well, it’s not the worst option. Wash already has a pretty good idea of where Tucker is in terms of hand to hand, so he can probably alternate working with him and wandering between the other pairs. 

Wash nods. “Alright, just give me a minute to get everyone else set.”

Tucker shoots him a wink and finger guns… which Wash assumes means he’s alright with that. Or something. Ever since they arrived in Armonia, Tucker’s been acting a little off and he can’t figure out why. Then again, he hadn’t exactly been able to look Tucker in the eye for a day and a half after the snuggling incident on the transport. But Tucker hasn’t been avoiding him, quite the contrary actually. With the training schedule occupying most of his thoughts, Wash hasn’t had much time to think about it. That’s starting to seem like a rather large oversight on his part. 

“Uh… right then.” 

Deciding to deal with that in a minute, he turns away, moving from pair to pair. Doyle and Green are reluctant to get anywhere near each other until Wash coaxes them along. Somehow, Sinclair’s actually getting Grif to move, darting around him with surprising speed. Wash makes a mental note to squeeze in a training session for her and Tucker with Carolina. 

He corrects stances here and there and very quickly switches Donut for Caboose after freeing Simmons from a slightly too enthusiastic bear hug. It’s not going terribly, so he wanders back over to Tucker after making a few notes on his datapad. All of them definitely need a few private lessons, and he’s got to get a session alone with the Reds sooner rather than later. 

Setting the datapad aside, he offers Tucker an apologetic smile. “Sorry, that took a little longer than I expected. Let’s start easy, then would you mind demonstrating a few basic holds with me?” 

Tucker’s the obvious choice now that he thinks about it. Wash knows for a fact he’s got the basics down, and, well… he doesn’t exactly have to worry about unforeseen complications of touching him anymore. This whole being out of armor thing is a real pain in the ass. 

For some reason, Tucker’s eyes light up at the question and he nods enthusiastically. “I’ll hold you as long as you want me to, baby.”

This is a mistake. 

Blinking, Wash takes a half step back. “Uh… actually, maybe Carolina should demonstrate instead--”

“Oh no you don’t.” And Tucker’s grabbing his arm and tugging him back. He lets go quick enough and takes a defensive stance. “You’re way too easy to mess with, loosen up a little, dude. Now c’mon, let’s see what you’ve got, old man.”

Something clicks in Wash’s head and he cocks an eyebrow. He remembers a cocksure rookie with a few less scars and no bags under his eyes, grinning as he squares off against the second best in the squad. A smile curls onto his lips as he mirrors Tucker, hands up, one motioning him forward. 

Tucker’s fast and he clearly had to have been paying attention to at least a few of the training sessions back at the crash site, although his footwork is terrible. They’ll have to work on that. Wash mostly counters and blocks, ducking around Tucker when he gets too close. Which he keeps doing for some reason. 

The third time, Wash catches Tucker’s arm as he dodges out of the way of a punch that brings Tucker right into his personal space and pins it to his back. He turns Tucker with one quick move and forces him away with a foot to his back. “Watch it, Tucker, you’re leaving yourself open. You know better.”

For some reason, that just makes Tucker grin as he turns to shrug at him. “Yeah, you’d think. Maybe I need some  _ private lessons _ .”

Wash just stares, trying to ignore the heat rising up his neck. That sounds like flirting. But Tucker’s just messing around, trying to get a rise out of him. Because he’s ‘easy to mess with’. Fine, if that’s how Tucker wants to play it, this is a game made for two anyway. 

“Keep going the way you are and you’re getting private lessons with Carolina and Caboose,” Wash says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Someone’s got to be on his side for once, because as he points, Caboose throws Carolina into a pile of mats halfway across the room. 

Tucker’s eyes go wide in horror. “You wouldn’t.”

Wash can’t stop himself from smirking. “Try me.”

“You’re the fucking worst.” But there’s still a slight smile on Tucker’s face as he shakes his head. He behaves himself as Wash demonstrates basic holds and how to get free, although he’s pretty sure there’s a few moments where Tucker’s hands linger just a little too long on his skin. Although that could easily be that that very unhelpful part of his brain that’s paying way too much attention to how nice it feels when Tucker moves willingly into his arms. 

The rest of the practice passes without incident except for Green’s near panic attack when Caboose sneezes on him. Wash sends everyone off to the showers as he grabs his datapad to make a few more notes. Familiar footsteps pad over and he half opens his mouth to tell Tucker to hurry up after the others, but then there’s a hand on the small of his back and a chin hooking over his shoulder and anything he’s about to say shrivels up and dies on his tongue. 

“You got anymore training sessions after this?” Tucker’s casual, like it’s normal for him to be so close Wash can feel his hair brushing against his neck, and smell that he definitely needs to head to the showers. 

Wash takes a breath, swallowing thickly. Tucker’s still messing with him. Alright, fine, he can handle this. He shakes his head faintly. “Not for a few hours. I’ve got a couple sessions with both armies later. Nothing too intense, just assessing where they are so I can set a more permanent training regimen.”

“Any meetings after that?”

“Uh… yes, actually.” His brow furrows and he shifts a little, glancing sideways at Tucker. “How did you know that?”

Wash can feel Tucker shrug against him, vaguely aware that the wandering hand has crept around to rest at his waist. “Lucky guess. And the fact that you’ve been running yourself ragged lately. Guess that’s not really anything new though. Got any sleep planned on that schedule?”

“I’m fine, Tucker.”

“Uh huh.” He doesn’t sound the least bit convinced. Although it’s hard to focus on that when Tucker’s hand starts gently rubbing up and down his side, fingers tracing the lines of muscles through his t-shirt, which he’s suddenly realizing is way too thin. “Y’know, I didn’t ask if you were fine, I asked if you were sleeping.”

“I’m… managing.”

“Wash.” And Tucker sounds so reproachful that he can’t stop himself from wincing, gaze dropping to the floor sheepishly. There’s a sigh and Tucker’s chest is pressed to his back so tight, Wash can feel the motion of it. The chin is replaced by Tucker’s forehead. Somehow that seems less dangerous.

Tucker’s other hand curls around his bicep and gently squeezes. “You need to fucking relax a little, and just… take care of yourself, dude.”

“I do--I am. I’m… I’m trying.” Wash shifts a little, leaning back into Tucker’s arms ever so slightly. Maybe… maybe he’s not messing with him. Tucker and Caboose have always been touchy, maybe this is just more of that. 

And maybe it’s not such a bad thing if he lets himself like it. 

Wash reaches for the hand on his waist, his fingers hovering for a second before he covers it with his own. “I’ll do better. This training is how I’m getting everyone else in shape… I guess it’s not fair if I don’t do a little of my own.”

There’s a huff of a laugh from Tucker. “Damn fucking straight. Gonna hold you to that, y’know?”

Ducking his head, Wash lets a smile slide onto his face. “I know. I’m counting on it. Now… would you please go take a shower? You’re a little disgusting right now.”

Tucker snorts and smacks his arm, but slowly pulls away. Wash turns his attention back to the datapad, trying to ignore how the lingering warmth gradually fades from his skin and how cold the room is once it’s gone.

* * *

Wash doesn’t start training the two armies together right from the start, which turns out to probably be for the best. He knows the Federal Army and what they’re capable of, but the New Republic is a mystery. It turns out they’re both in dire need of someone with far more experience than him.

He’s halfway to screaming himself hoarse by the time he sends the former rebels to the showers. Rubbing at his temple, he all but collapses onto one of the benches in the training room. At least Armonia has decent equipment for them to work with. Simmons had done a thorough inventory and assessment of it earlier, which… Wash hadn’t actually asked him to do, but it was quite helpful. 

It’s only been a week, he tries to tell himself. The fact that they aren’t making much progress yet is to be expected. That doesn’t make it any less frustrating. 

Scowling, he pokes at his datapad. The schedule is a constantly shifting and changing nightmare. He’s been doing his best to get it more organized to give everyone what they need most. 

But it mostly seems like everyone just needs as much time training as possible. 

And, as Wash has had Tucker and Carolina and even Epsilon for some reason tell him, he can’t do it all himself. So he’s delegating. Or trying to anyway. He’s given Carolina a few training sessions to run, and handed off some basic hand to hand lessons to Tucker, and even given Donut a handful of cadets to train on projectiles. 

Really… he could probably give a few more of the Reds and Blues some things to do. The more he sees of the Feds and the rebels, the more clear it is that they’re all just a bunch of scared kids, who could probably use one of Caboose’s hugs more than a detailed lesson in how to field strip a rifle. 

With a sigh, he sets the datapad down and drags his hands over his face. He used to know how to deal with people without caring. It used to be so simple to just follow orders and do what needed to be done, to just shut off the part of his brain that wanted to be human. But now that carefully constructed dam that’s supposed to hold back all his feelings has several large holes punched right through it. 

“Agent Washington, are you alright?” 

He looks up, finding Corporal Sinclair standing at the end of the bench. Her eyes are curious and concerned behind her glasses. The frames are pink with little flowers on them and they don’t quite hide the dark shadows. She can’t be more than eighteen. 

Sitting up straight, he shakes his head. “Just a bit tired, corporal, nothing to be concerned about. Are you here for your training session with Carolina?”

“Yes, sir. I like to get here early to stretch.”

“Of course. Well, I’ll get out of your way,” he says, rising from the bench and heading toward the door. 

“Um, Agent Washington? I was wondering if I could ask you something actually.”

He stops, turning back toward her slowly. There’s still a trace of curiosity in her voice, but he finds himself struck, again, but how like Carolina she seems. Sinclair is quite a bit smaller, and her nose is long and straight, unlike Carolina’s that’s been given a permanent bend to the left due to a bad break a lifetime ago that Wash shouldn’t even remember. But it’s the surprising determination in Sinclair’s eyes that he knows he would recognize anywhere. 

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but I wanted to ask… why did you agree to train us? General Doyle said that you started training our army because, well, because it seemed like you were just bored. And… I’ve done a bit of research on you, sir, and--I mean no disrespect, but I’m not sure you’re qualified to train an army.”

Wash blinks at her. She’s not like Carolina, she’s like CT. She does look a little sheepish, but her shoulders are squared, stance steady, clearly ready to weather whatever storm he might send her way. 

“Honestly, I don’t believe I am,” he says slowly. “I’ve led plenty of small squads before, but I’ve really only ever trained Tucker and Caboose.”

“I see. I also understand that… you’ve made it quite clear to the generals you don’t particularly care about our war, or this planet.” And there’s a little bit of an edge to her voice there. The only reason it’s a surprise is that Wash hasn’t heard it from anyone else first. 

Wash doesn’t duck his head in shame or turn away, he just nods. “I don’t, or I didn’t. It wasn’t my war, my priority was always just making it off this planet alive with my friends. I’ve never made that a secret.”

“Then why are you here?” Her hands are curled into fists at her sides, though her face is still even and composed. There’s anger under the surface there. He knows that look all too well, forced calm in the face of superiors with a fire raging beneath. 

Maybe she’s not like CT. Maybe… maybe she’s more like him. 

He lets his gaze drift away as he blows out a breath. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he shrugs. “I don’t have an answer you’re going to like, Sinclair. My friends are here because they care about you--the Feds, or the rebels, or because it’s the ‘right thing to do’. And… I’m here because they are.”

“So you don’t care about us?” There’s still that careful, forced calm, but she’s not trying to be polite anymore. 

Wash turns to her, head tipping to one side. The answer is that… he’s getting there. Caring for an entire plant of people is waaaay too much for his shriveled husk of a heart to handle. But there’s things that stick with him: the look in Kimball’s eyes when he had agreed to train them, Doyle hugging him in an empty meeting room, Karimi getting out of the infirmary and immediately tracking him down to demand private knife fighting lessons… the allies lost when the mercenaries had attacked the convoy. 

“Caring isn’t something I’m good at,” he says slowly. “You’ve lost people in the war?”

Surprise flits across her face for a moment before she gives a stiff nod. “I have.”

“It doesn’t ever get easier, losing people. It always hurts and that never really goes away. Learning to live with that hurt, knowing that caring about more people will only make it worse--it’s difficult. For a long time it was too much, I couldn’t figure out how to care and keep going. I’m still working on that...” 

Letting out a breath, he shifts, squaring his shoulders, stance matching hers. “I don’t care about the planet. I don’t care about the Federal Army or the New Republic. However, I am learning to care for the people that make them up.”

“Is that supposed to be good enough?” Sinclair doesn’t seem to mean to say it, her hand flying up to cover her mouth a moment later. She half turns away, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “I… I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean that--”

“No, it’s… it’s alright. Because it’s not good enough,” Wash says, with a little shrug. “Honestly, your people probably deserve better, but I’m all you’ve got. The least I can do is be honest with you about that much.”

“Thank you… for that.” Sinclair looks a little less sure of herself now as she adjusts her glasses, eyes fixed on the floor. She sighs and faintly shakes her head. “You and Agent Carolina are likely the best we could hope for. I know that, and I do appreciate what you’re doing, it’s just… difficult to trust you--or anyone else after...”

She doesn’t need to elaborate. Wash can see the holes the mercenaries left everywhere he looks. The places where they sunk their claws in deep, carving rough, still bleeding wounds. 

“I understand. You don’t have to trust me as a person, Sinclair, I don’t expect you to, but… you can trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Sinclair holds his eyes for a few long moments before she nods. Her shoulders are squared and steady as she turns away, moving to start warming up. Wash takes that as his cue to leave her be. The war’s gone on too long and clearly left some edges that aren’t going to be smoothed over, not without a lot of time and care. 

And honestly, Wash knows he’s not the person to do it, but he has to follow his own advice and try.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to so much to everyone who commented last chapter! Things have slowed down a little bit here, but don't worry, we'll be getting back to the action soon enough~


	12. Never Worse But Never Better

All things considered, the move to the capital is relatively painless for the ones that made it as far as Wash can tell. Unfortunately, not all of them did. 

“Forty-seven fatalities.” Kimball’s shaking with fury. It’s taken too long to get the numbers, but the final tally with two more privates succumbing to their injuries after weeks of fighting to hold on really hammers it home. 

They had outnumbered the pirates, even with the ships, but numbers alone clearly aren’t enough. Wash sets his jaw, hands curling into fists where they’re clenched behind his back. He’s seen the list. He doesn’t know all the names, most of them mean absolutely nothing to him, except for the fact that… if he had been faster, better, maybe they would still be alive. 

What’s a dash more guilt to add onto the load on his shoulders?

He doesn’t have to look to tell Carolina’s striking the same pose. Doyle sits in the chair between them, for once not picking a fight as he somberly looks through the list as well. It’s not just rebels on that list after all. After a moment, he lets out a heavy sit and sets the datapad down, pressing a hand to his brow. 

“We will have a memorial erected post haste,” he says, voice low, tone probably meant to be soothing. “There’s… there’s a lovely spot in a park just in front of the capitol building.”

Kimball stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “A memorial with  _ all _ the names?”

“Every last one, side by side… as they should be.” 

Her knuckles are still white and she definitely still seems to want to break something in half, though Doyle has apparently moved himself off that list. Very slowly, she gives a stiff nod. “Good, that’s… thank you, general.”

Nodding dutifully, Doyle grabs the datapad again, typing out a quick message. “I’ll have Sinclair get the work order processed at once.”

Kimball gives another stiff jerk of her head. She paces behind her desk, taking deep breaths. They don’t seem to help much. “A memorial is thoughtful, but it won’t bring our people back… and it won’t stop us from losing anymore. We need to find out what else Cruz knows.”

“I thought she had already been interrogated?” Carolina crosses her arms over her chest. 

“I questioned her thoroughly, however, I’m not certain she told me everything.” Kimball moves to her chair, though she doesn’t sit in it, instead gripping the back, nails biting into the cushion. “She was in charge of our files for two years, there’s no telling what she could have fed them. Cruz was appointed by the last general, she’s never taken me seriously.”

“You could always give her to Dr. Grey for a while,” Wash says evenly. “She has a certain… way with people.”

Carolina is staring at him, but he doesn’t blink. If she wants to lecture him, that’s going to have to wait. He definitely doesn’t remember her having a problem with the good doctor’s methods before. 

Kimball looks more than a little tempted, shifting her weight from one side to the other. “I can’t officially condone that…”

“You don’t have to.” Epsilon’s voice pops up before he projects himself onto Kimball’s desk from the helmet Carolina had brought along with her. “I’ve gone through all her old files. Anything Cruz knows, I know. So you’re fucking welcome.”

It takes a few hours to sort through the files, though at least Epsilon had already sorted things into levels of importance. Wash isn’t sure that’s the best system, but he largely stays out of it, letting the generals parse through the information. There’s a few potential problems, mostly in terms of their old supply routes. Things spiral a little as the generals dive into the bits and pieces that Locus and Felix would know even without the information from Cruz. 

More exhausted than he’s been after a full day of training, Wash steps out of the office what feels like days later, a headache already taking hold. At least that’s somewhat sorted out. He hears Carolina saying her goodbyes to the generals before she follows him out, steps quick to catch up with him. 

“So…” That can’t possibly be good. She’s looking at him expectantly, helmet under her arm as a reminder that Epsilon is right there to hear him.

“Is there something you wanted, boss?” He doesn’t mean to sound quite as clipped and formal as he does, but he can practically feel a lecture coming and he just doesn’t want to fucking hear it. 

“How much sleep have you been getting?” The question is about the last one he expects, and it’s enough to bring him to a dead halt, finally turning to fully look at Carolina. Her free hand is on her hip, something like concern on her face as she looks him over, gaze intent, almost like she’s looking right through him. With those eyes, he almost believes she can. 

“Enough,” Wash says, a little stiffly. “I don’t know why people keep asking me that.”

“Because you look like shit.” Oh good, Epsilon wants to talk too. Wash forces down a sigh as the glowing figure appears in front of him. “Plus that whole ‘let’s torture people’ thing. Kind of a giveaway that something’s up with you.”

Wash shifts, posture straightening, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on the wall next to Carolina’s head. “It was an option worth presenting. And one that neither of you had any objection to previously.”

There’s a weary sigh from Carolina. “I hate when you do this.”

Wash doesn’t look away from the spot on the wall, even as Epsilon flickers in front of his face. “Do what, boss?”

“Your ‘good soldier’ voice. I know York taught you that.” 

She’s not wrong. Wash’s penchant for questions hadn’t gone over well in Freelancer. York had never known how to fall in line either, but he had gotten quite good at faking it.  _ Just shut down. Stare at the wall. Tell them what they want to hear, make it sound like it was their idea. _

He had plenty of time to practice back in the Recovery Unit. But now he’s out of practice, tone a little too clipped, stance a little too defensive. Then again, it’s never something he’s meant to use against Carolina. 

Slowly, he lets his gaze drop to the floor, if only so he can look away from Epsilon. “I’m fine, Carolina. I was just… I’m tired of doing nothing,” he grits out the words. “Everyday we stay here playing house, Felix and Locus are out there planning when to strike next.”

“I know, Wash.” A hand lands on his arm and he finally forces himself to meet Carolina’s eyes. “We’re dealing with it. I’ve got a scouting mission tomorrow. As soon as we find something, we’ll start planning our next move.”

Letting out a breath, he nods and drags a hand through his hair. “I know. It’s just the waiting that’s getting to me. I need to… do something.”

“You’re doing plenty.” She gently shakes his shoulder. “But if you’re really going stir crazy, you should talk to the guys about a supply run.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “To where? I thought we didn’t have much intel about where to search for ammunition.”

“We don’t.” There’s something a little mischievous to Carolina’s smile. “But this isn’t about ammo. This is a pretty big city, Wash, there’s lots of places to find interesting things.”

What’s that supposed to mean? 

“I see,” he says uncertainly. “What kind of things?”

“That takes half the fun out of it. Just ask Tucker, I’m sure he’ll be happy to let you tag along the next time they go scavenging.” She winks at him and starts walking away and he’s pretty sure there’s something she’s hinting at there, but he has no idea what. It’s not a terrible idea, although he doesn’t really see the point. At least it’s something to think about. 

* * *

Wash nearly forgets about Carolina’s suggestion for two days. With training and keeping one eye constantly on the feed from her scouting mission, it’s hard for him to think of much else. Why she decided to take Donut and Caboose with her, he doesn’t know. Carolina’s taken a shine to both of them for some reason.

Well, alright, maybe he can see some reasons. It’s not like Wash hasn’t found himself seeking them out in his spare time now and then. Having the two of them gone leaves a strange hole, and a sort of quiet where their calming chatter should be. 

But as long as there’s even one Red or Blue around, it’s never going to be that quiet. 

He’s sitting next to Tucker at lunch and definitely not pouting as he pokes at his salad because his teammate is a traitor and teamed up with Grif and Simmons to steal his datapad. 

“You’ve been glued to that thing for two days, dude, you need to fucking chill,” Tucker had insisted, holding it out of reach behind him, one hand pressed to Wash’s chest. Grif had gotten hold of Wash’s arm, leaving more than enough time for Tucker to hand off the datapad to Simmons. “You’ll get it back later. Lunch first.”

Wash wants to snap at them, to ask if they’re worried about the others, but he’s pretty sure none of them will ever admit to caring about each other. They’re not the best with emotions. And… alright, he can kind of relate. But he’s working on it. He’s pretty sure if he were to suggest anything of the sort to the three soldiers sitting with him, they’d head for the fucking hills. Well, Grif would probably stop for seconds on the way out, but still. 

They’re all doing their best to ignore his sullen salad prodding. Simmons, who’s apparently allowed to have datapads at lunch because that’s fair, is intently jotting things down as he argues with Tucker. “We don’t need more chocolate sauce, Tucker. What do you want it for? And what did you even do with the last bottle?”

“I didn’t get the chance to do anything with it before Caboose used it to make a mural in one of the extra rooms on our floor. I’m not cleaning that up by the way, just so everyone knows.”

Simmons makes a face. “That’s disgusting.”

“You think that’s bad, you didn’t even hear what he wanted it for,” Grif says, snorting. 

That actually makes Simmons gag and push his tray away, which Grif snatches up without hesitation. Wash is pretty sure he remembers Grif fussing and disparaging Simmons vegan burger when he had picked it out ten minutes ago, but that doesn’t stop the man from scarfing it down in record time.

Wash glances between them, slight frown on his face. He really, really shouldn’t ask, but if he doesn’t, it’s just going to haunt him. “Where are you planning to get chocolate sauce in the first place?”

“Supply run, dude, duh.” Tucker gestures with a fry at Simmons’ datapad. “We’re going with some of the rebels tomorrow.”

And then Tucker hesitates, looking meaningfully at Grif and Simmons. Grif cocks an eyebrow and then glances at Wash. Immediately, he shakes his head and slams his hands down on the table. “No fucking way, Tucker.”

“Grif, c’mon.”

“We’re not letting Agent Buzzkill come along--no offense, Wash,” Grif adds, shrugging at him. 

“Some taken,” Wash replies mildly, though the protest only prods at his curiosity. “Carolina actually mentioned something about a supply run before she left…”

“I’ve already got her list,” Simmons says almost automatically. He looks up at Wash and freezes. “Uh, you can put in a list too if you want. It’s just… y’know, Red Team first since I make the list. I’m sure you understand.”

He doesn’t, but he nods anyway. “That’s not what I--she said I should go along with you.”

“What? Why? I knew having a Freelancer on Red Team was a bad idea, initiation was only a week ago and she’s already a traitor.” Grif gestures aggressively with a French fry before biting it viciously in half. 

Tucker scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh calm down, dude. Wash is cool… ish. Sometimes. Okay, it depends on the day, but I bet he could break us into some good shit. Right, man?”

Wash just blinks at him, lips twitching because he can’t figure out whether to laugh or to be offended. “Break you into what?”

“Just like, I dunno, some locked up shit. You can pick a lock, right?”

Slowly, Wash nods. It’s been a while, but he had managed to get a few lessons from York years before that haven’t totally faded from his mind. “I can--”

Tucker slaps the table definitively, as if that’s settled something. “There you go. I say Wash is in.”

“Well,” Simmons says hesitantly, eyes flicking over his datapad. “It might not hurt to have someone with more tactical expertise along. Just to be safe.”

Grif turns to him and shakes his head. “Even you, Simmons? Fine. Fuck it. What do I care? But you better pull your damn weight!”

Wash lets the corner of his mouth turn up slightly. “I’ll do my best. So, you said there would be some rebels as well?”

“Yeah, just a couple people from the old squads,” Tucker says, nodding. “Their squads, not mine. If Palomo comes along, I’m tying him to something and leaving him out there. And Caboose’s people never wanna go anywhere without him.”

“I should meet the others before the mission.” Wash blinks when the others stare at him with narrowed eyes. “What?”

“This isn’t like an official mission, dude.” Grif leans closer conspiratorially. “This shit is off the record. If it gets out that we’re scavenging all the good stuff, people are gonna get pissed. Or worse, they’re gonna make us  _ share _ .”

Wash sighs. For some reason, he had thought that when Carolina said ‘supply run’ she had meant it was a serious operation. But that’s probably his fault. He really should’ve known better. “I’d still like to meet the rebels we’re taking along beforehand, and if there’s anything you can tell me about the area, I want to know as much as possible.”

Grif and Tucker both roll their eyes, but Simmons sits a little straighter in his seat as he nods. “I can work up an unofficial briefing for you if you want, sir. We’re taking Jensen and Wexler from my squad and Bitters and Misra from Grif’s. I believe they’re all on motorpool duty now if you want to talk to them.”

“Excellent, let’s go, Simmons.” Wash is already rising from his seat, barely noticing as Grif snags his tray and quickly gobbles down what’s left of his salad. 

Nodding brightly, Simmons follows him, puffing up his thin chest a little as he falls into step at Wash’s side. It’s a little odd. He hasn’t spent much time with Simmons since the crash site, and even then it wasn’t much. Wash isn’t quite sure how to talk to him. He clears his throat a little awkwardly. 

“So have there been many supply runs before this one?” he asks, glancing sideways at Simmons. Wash wouldn’t say the man has an imposing figure, but up close, it’s hard not to notice how tall he is. He might even beat Caboose there. And the glowing red eye and bionic arm aren’t exactly hard to miss without his armor. 

“Just a few. One of Donut’s Fed friends told us about some places to search if we were running low on, uh… personal items. It’s usually kind of a mess,” Simmons admits, adjusting his glasses. “It’ll be nice having someone along who takes things seriously, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

“Uh, I don’t. But you don’t have to call me sir, Simmons. I’m not your CO.” And he never has been, so he’s really not sure where that part is coming from. 

“Oh, I know. It’s just… well, you have a natural aura of leadership, sir, and you were very briefly my CO when I was a member of Blue Team back at crash site bravo.” Oh right. Wash is pretty sure that doesn’t count, but he’s not going to argue, so he just nods. 

“Well, uh, thank you for saying so, but it’s just… that’s really not necessary.” It’s one thing when the Feds or the rebels he’s training call him that, but it seems wrong coming from the Reds and Blues. 

Simmons fidgets a little as he walks, rubbing his hands together. “It’s just… sort of a habit. Just feels like I should.”

Wash stops, frown on his face as he turns toward Simmons fully. They’re in an empty hallway, just shy of the exit out into the motorpool. Simmons stops a few steps away as Wash crosses his arms over his chest. “Why? You don’t fall in line with Carolina like this.”

There’s more awkward fidgeting and Simmons can’t seem to look at him. “Look, it’s just--it’s not that--fuck, I feel guilty okay!”

Of all the things Wash is expecting, that’s nowhere close to being on the list. He stares at Simmons, eyes wide. “What? There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about--”

“I wanted to leave you behind.”

The words seem to echo in the hall, and something in Wash’s gut turns unpleasantly. “What?”

Simmons half turns toward him, eyes still fixed on the floor, his hands twitching at his sides. “After the fight with the Meta, I… I wanted to just leave you there.”

“It’s alright, Simmons,” Wash says after a long moment, and he means it. Because, fuck, he’s never really understood why they didn’t. That makes far more sense than dragging him along after everything he had put them through. 

There’s something blazing in Simmons’ eyes when he looks up at him sharply and shakes his head. “No, it’s not! We already left you once and I--I wanted to do it again! And you almost died fighting that fucker to help us!”

Wash takes a step forward, holding up his hands, palms open. “You still had every reason not to trust me. You thought I killed Donut… I thought I did too. I understand, Simmons. I don’t blame you for that. I always--I’ve never apologized to you for that. For taking you prisoner.”

“Yeah, guess you haven’t.” Something in Simmons’ posture stiffens a bit, his robotic hand rubbing at his real arm. “But… that was ages ago. And I’m over it. Mostly.”

And Wash winces a little at that, guilt twisting up his insides. He can’t make up for that, not really. Donut being alright doesn’t change anything, Simmons saw him murder his friend in cold blood. 

“For what it’s worth now, I am sorry about that,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m not going to make excuses for what I did, and I know nothing I do will change what happened. I never apologized because, well, I didn’t expect to be forgiven.”

“Well that’s stupid.” Blinking, Wash looks up in surprise, finding Simmons crossing his arms, an odd expression on his face. “I’m not saying I forgive you, I mean, but--Jesus, do you have to be so dramatic about it? Look, that shit doesn’t matter anymore, alright? And I know you now, sort of, so just--it’s good. We’re good, right?”

Simmons has this pained, hopeful look on his face, and Wash can’t remember him ever seeming so uncomfortable and open. The Reds and Blues don’t really do open, honest talks. So he nods, managing a slight, half smile. “Yeah, we are.”

“Fucking good.” Simmons breathes a heavy sigh and shakes his head. “We should, uh, just go on and see the squad. They’re waiting.”

Wash nods. “Lead the way.”

* * *

The squad probably should’ve told Wash what to expect out of the supply run.

“Are we there yet?” asks Private Misra for the fifth time. Wash grits his teeth and forces down a sigh. He just has to wonder who was in charge of picking people for Simmons and Grif’s squads. Reason seems to indicate that it would’ve been Kimball, but he can’t see her putting these people together  in good faith. 

Misra is the youngest member of Grif’s squad, and Jesus Christ does it show. His attention span rivals Caboose and his interest in following orders is only slightly better than his captain’s. Apparently, he’s a friend of Karimi’s, and she had passed along the story from the convoy, which meant Misra had spent most of that first meeting asking over and over again for Wash to act it out. Wash’s pretty sure he’s being annoying now because he had said no. 

“We get there when we get there, private,” he hisses. It’s not an official mission, so their armor is all left behind and Wash hates it. They have headsets to stay in constant communication and bulletproof vests, but the weight of it is unfamiliar and not nearly as comforting as full body kevlar and metal plating. 

They’re not even leaving Armonia, so it should be fine. Or that’s what Tucker and Grif had said over and over again. “Wash, we’ve done this a bunch of times, it’s cool, there’s no one out there except a few stray dogs,” Tucker had insisted. “Trust us, we know what we’re doing.”

One of these days the ‘trust me’ card has to stop working. 

“Don’t let him bother you, sir,” says Wexler, nearly making Wash jump when she appears at his side. She keeps doing that. Tucker had quietly introduced her as ‘the really hot one that plays volleyball’ to him, and Wash had done his very best to ignore the way that made his heart sink just a little. At least she’s focused on the mission. He’s just not sure why she has to be focused on it so close to him. 

She flashes him a bright smile that has a worrying amount of teeth in it and he manages a nod in return before turning his attention back to the streets around them. This part of Armonia is completely empty and it’s a little eerie walking past block after block of abandoned buildings. The soft chatter in the headset is almost comforting, without it, everything would be far too quiet. 

Wash is up in front, taking point with Wexler and Tucker, who’s actually been weirdly quiet the whole walk there. Simmons, Jensen, and Misra are in the center, directing the group along, and Bitters and Grif are in the back. Which is probably where they would’ve ended up anyway given how fast they walk. 

“Simmons, are we getting close? What are we looking for?” he asks, scanning this way and that, glancing at the tall buildings on either side of them. There’s dozens of places for snipers and they’ve walked through several areas that would have made ideal ambush locations. So far, nothing, but that doesn’t make him like it. 

“Just a few more blocks. Alright, we’re gonna go through this alley coming up on the right and then we’re there.”

“Acknowledged,” Wash says, turning to the right. Great, another shadowy alley with dozens of places for traps. “Wexler, Tucker, move up. Wait for my mark before advancing.”

“Yes sir!”

Tucker snorts, falling into step a few feet behind him. “Whatever you say, Wash.”

He holds up a hand, signalling the other two to stop while he scouts out the alley. No signs of traps, tripwires, or snipers. Wash motions sharply and soft footsteps approach. At least they’re going along with it, even if he’s pretty sure no one else is taking it seriously. There are a few sensors and cameras that they had apparently set up on the last run that Simmons is monitoring, so they’re not going in blind. 

Wash moves through the alley, back pressed to the wall. With most of the weapons on lockdown, all he’s got is a pistol and a few knives and leaving his rifle behind feels like being down an arm. He takes a breath and moves up, stepping out of the alley. And he freezes. 

“A strip mall?” He knows his voice is reaching that pitch that makes Tucker laugh at him, but he can’t make it stop. This is fucking ridiculous. “We came all this way for a strip mall?”

Tucker claps him on the shoulder and flashes him a grin. “Pretty smart, right? People totally overlook places like this, but they’ve got tons of good shit.”

Wash shoots him a flat look and half opens his mouth to say something, but Wexler beats him to it. “He’s not wrong, sir. Most of the supermarkets and stores downtown have already been cleaned out, but Jensen and I did some scouting and there’s still plenty of supplies here. It’s a little unorthodox, sure, but it works!”

He sighs and then goes still when Wexler puts a hand on his arm, flashing him another smile. “And with you running things, sir, I’m sure it won’t take long. You’ve got such a good head for tactics, Agent Washington.”

“Uh… thank you, private.” Wash’s eyes flick between her face and her hand until she moves forward, linking arms with Jensen once the second group catches up. He glances at Tucker, eyebrows rising. “What was that about? Why was she just staring at me? Is there something on my face?”

Tucker snorts and cocks an eyebrow. “Seriously dude?”

“What?”

“You fucking loser--she was hitting on you,” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest and glances up ahead where Wexler and Jensen are laughing at something together. They both glance back at them and Wexler waves and winks. 

Oh god. Tucker’s right. 

No. No no no. This isn’t happening. This  _ doesn’t _ happen to him. He’s not the one people flirt with. That had always been York’s thing, or North’s on occasion. Now, he’s pretty sure Tucker and Donut should be the main targets for that. They’re the young, pretty ones the cadets should be fawning over. 

Wash splutters and almost trips over himself. “I-I don’t--why would she? I literally just met her. I wasn’t--I’m  _ not _ flirting with her--”

Tucker snorts and elbows him in the side. “Calm down, Wash. Pretty sure that’s just what she does. I wouldn’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s go before they take all the good stuff.”

For some reason, Tucker seems slightly cheerier as he tugs Wash along toward the strip mall. It’s mostly generic stores, but there’s a beauty parlor here, and a health food store there, along with a few long empty fast food places. The whole place gives him the strangest sense of nostalgia and deja vu. Even out in the furthest reaches of the galaxy, a strip mall is a strip mall. 

A few of the places have already been broken into, or at least had attempts made, but most of it’s still locked up tight. Wash gets past the locks on the front doors of a few places pretty easily, although he puts his foot down at the liquor store. 

“I didn’t come on this supply run to load up on alcohol, Captain Grif,” he says, looking down at Grif with no small amount of judgement. 

“Yeah, well  _ I _ did.” Grif crosses his arms and glares up at him. “Look, I’ve been busting my ass for this army and I think I deserve something a little nicer than the booze they’ve been making in old tank engines. This stuff is right fucking there! If we don’t take it, it’s just gonna go to waste!”

“Good.” Wash turns on his heel and heads back toward the generic store where he left Tucker and and the others earlier. 

“Worst supply run ever!” Grif’s yell follows him, but he barely notices. 

The store is dim, the power probably long spent or diverted elsewhere. Shadowy aisles seem to stretch out in all directions. He’s two steps inside when he has to dart out of the way as Jensen and Wexler speed by in a motorized shopping cart. There’s tremendous crash that makes him wince. 

“We’re okay!”

Wash sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe he should go raid the liquor store with Grif after all. Creaking wheels make him look up as Tucker wanders over, pushing along a slightly more old fashioned cart that he’s already got half full. “So, you open up the liquor store?”

“No, of course not.”

“Damn, oh well. Kinda figured you wouldn’t.” He taps at his headset. “Hey, Simmons, you owe me twenty bucks.”

Simmons’ cursing drifts over from aisle four. Grinning, Tucker tugs at Wash’s arm, heading toward another row apparently at random. “You grabbed anything yet?”

“Not really.” Wash looks around, brow slightly furrowed. The shelves on either side of them mostly have office supplies and small appliances. “Do we actually need any of this stuff?”

“It’s not about what we  _ need _ , dude,” Tucker says, grabbing a few dozen sticky note pads and sweeping them into the cart. “It’s about shit we haven’t had in ages. Or things we can just fuck around with--like those. Caboose fucking loves sticky notes, don’t know why, he just does. Dumb stuff like that.”

Wash nods, but regards the other items in the cart rather skeptically. A few he can see uses for, like the three blankets shoved into one corner, or the mugs and glasses in another. The candy, magazines, and Christmas lights give him pause, but he decides not to comment on them. 

“You should at least get something, man,” Tucker insists as they head into the next aisle. 

“Like what?”

“I dunno, get yourself something nice. Well, sorta nice. This place is kinda crap. They’ve got steak knives somewhere, you like stabbing shit, right?” 

Rolling his eyes, Wash reluctantly glances along the shelves, looking for something half to just make Tucker happy. And then he pauses, eyes lingering on a package of brightly colored, plastic, silly straws. He hesitates and then slowly picks them off the shelf. 

“Find something, Wash?” Tucker asks, peering around his shoulder. “Silly straws?”

“Uh…” Wash rubs at the back of his neck. “I, uh, I always liked these. When I was younger, I mean. I think… my sisters always got me a pack on my birthday. It started as a joke, but I liked them. I used to have a bunch in the Project, it made it easier to drink through my helmet.”

His face is warm and Tucker’s staring at him and he moves to put the package back. “It’s stupid.”

Tucker grabs the straws out of his hand and then three more packages from the shelf and dumps them into the cart. “What other stuff did you have back then? Or before?”

“What?” But Tucker’s already moving down the aisle and Wash has to jog to catch up. “That’s not--Tucker, you don’t have to--”

“Yeah, I do. You like them, so we’re getting them, that simple, dude. How do you feel about stickers?” he asks, already examining a wall of them. 

Wash glances at them and he means to just dismiss the idea, because they’re stickers, who cares? But then his eyes go straight to a set of cat stickers and Tucker grabs them before he can look away. Tucker snorts this time. “Kitten stickers, dude? Seriously?”

His face is on fire again as he shrugs and stares at the floor, scuffing the toe of his boot against the tiles. “I… like cats.”

“Jesus Christ Wash, that’s not fucking fair.”

Blinking, Wash looks up at him and Tucker is just staring at him, one hand pressed to his face. “What’s not?”

“You--and you’re just… fuck, man. Nevermind. Alright, we’re getting these.” And he grabs every sticker that even looks vaguely cat shaped and dumps them into the cart. 

They go through the entire store twice. There’s still not a whole lot that catches Wash’s eye, but anything he lingers on or reaches for is immediately added to the cart. Most of it is pointless, random junk, but… he does like it. Tucker adds in plenty of other things too, mentioning offhand that Caboose likes bouncy balls, or that Donut’s been complaining about not having nice shampoo. 

Wash pauses at one point and glances into the cart, frowning. “What are you getting for you?”

“Pssh, duh.” Tucker fishes out a few magazines with women wearing so little they could hardly be called swimsuits and a box of condoms and Wash regrets everything. “Got my priorities, dude.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he digs through the stuff again and pulls out what looks like an old, disposable camera. “And a couple of these. Didn’t even know they made these things anymore. Probably can’t get the pictures developed or anything, but… I figure fuck it, might as well use them.”

Wash considers that for a moment as Tucker shuffles awkwardly on the spot. He reaches past him into the cart and feels around for another camera. After inspecting it for a moment, he finds the button for the flash and holds it up. The click and the sudden light make Tucker jump. He makes a face. “Dude--”

Click.

“Wash, cut it out--”

Click.

“You fucking ass, give me that!”

Wash bites back a grin as he darts around the cart and out of Tucker’s reach, winding the little wheel to take the next picture. This is stupid, but he’s fighting not to laugh as he dodges and ducks away from Tucker’s grasping hands, taking picture after picture. Between the curses, he’s pretty sure Tucker’s laughing. 

Tucker jumps at him, catching him around the shoulders and Wash stumbles. He shifts slightly so he hits the floor first, camera still outstretched. Shoulders shaking because he can’t stop himself laughing now, he presses his free hand to Tucker’s face, holding him back as he takes a few more pictures. 

Batting away his hand, Tucker leans back and tries to glare at him, but his lips keep trying to twitch up into a smile. “You’re such a fucking loser,” he says, lightly punching Wash’s shoulder. “If you get those developed, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Wash shoots him an innocent grin. “I think I got some good ones in there.”

“Oh gimme that.” This time, he manages to snatch the camera out of Wash’s hands and turns it around on him. The flash makes Wash wince as he pushes himself up on his elbows. 

“I suppose that makes us even now.”

“Even? Fuck that, you got way more of me. I’ll get you back later,” he says, tossing the camera into the cart. Tucker looks back at him and goes weirdly still. 

It’s about then that Wash realizes just what position they’re in. He’s still mostly on his back, Tucker sitting on top of him, straddling his waist. Well fuck. Wash can feel a blush creeping up his neck and he really needs to be anywhere else. But Tucker’s still not moving, his eyes wide for a moment and then there’s something else there. Something Wash can’t quite place.

“Uh…”

“Captain Tucker are you still here?” Jensen’s voice cuts through the crushing awkward silence. Tucker scrambles up and off him and Wash takes a tiny breath of relief. 

And he’s definitely not disappointed. At all. Because that would be stupid. It’s not like they were doing anything, or even about to do anything. Tucker made it pretty clear just a few minutes ago where his interests lie. 

At least Tucker offers him a hand up and Wash only hesitates for a moment before taking it. 

He can’t quite look at Tucker for the rest of the supply run. They hit a few more stores and, against his better judgement, Wash goes back and picks the liquor store’s lock. Grif looks so happy he could cry as he goes straight for the whiskey. Wash is pretty sure Bitters is the only one of the rebels who’s actually old enough to drink, but he keeps quiet and just grabs himself a bottle of something that looks acceptably fruity to share with Donut when he gets back from the mission. 

They just bring the carts back with them. As Grif points out, no one else is really using them, so there’s probably not much harm. The trip back is almost entirely uneventful except for a message coming in from Carolina on his datapad asking how the supply run went. 

Wash glances sideways at Tucker, who’s having an intense debate with Bitters about why vodka is better than gin. 

_ Better than expected _ , is all he says in response. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for the amazing comments! I can't tell you guys how much it means to me every time I get an alert. So I've written most of this out in advance, but I'm kinda glad the timing of this worked out with this chapter right after angst week instead of the next one since this is a little lighter.


	13. With Just One Single Blow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Major injury and blood.

Carolina and her scouting team get back the next day. Wash lingers in the corner of the war room for the debriefing. Meetings have been taking place there more and more lately, it’s a more neutral ground than either of the generals’ offices, both of which tend to be filled with screaming as soon as anyone from the other army enters.

She and Epsilon run through the details. Apparently there hadn’t been much sign of pirates, which isn’t a bad thing, but leaves them without any idea of what their next move is. They did, however, find an abandoned hospital in a nearby city that looks to be unguarded. There had been a few pirate patrols around the city itself, but far fewer than what’s been there the last few months. So if there’s a time to go for the hospital, it’s now. And after the convoy, they’re running a little low on medical supplies. 

“We can’t take the entire city,” Kimball says, frowning, flicking around the holographic projection of the place. “Even if the pirates have largely pulled out, we don’t have the manpower to hold it.”

Doyle nods. “I concur. It’s not a particularly useful point either, the defenses are terrible… which is why we let it go in the first place.” 

“That’s probably why the pirates aren’t trying very hard to hold onto it.” Carolina drums her fingers on the edge of the table that takes up most of the middle of the room, staring intently at the map. “Their main bases seem to be on the east side of the city. If we could keep them busy there, we might be able to have another squad go for the hospital. What do you think, Wash?”

Frowning, Wash moves closer to the table, spinning the map and zooming in. “It could work, both squads would need to be in constant communication, and neither could fly in without being spotted. As long as the team at the hospital moves quickly and only grabs the essentials, I think we have a decent shot. It’s still risky though, I don’t like going in without air support for a quick evac if we need it.”

“We could have a pelican land nearby.” Carolina pulls at the map, zooming out and moving further away from the city. “There’s a small valley here. We can land a ship there, it shouldn’t be visible from the city.” 

“Alright.” He nods and then glances across the table at Carolina. “So… who do we send?”

It takes about two minutes for the screaming to start. Three hours later, they’ve got most of the roster figured out, though it’s still going to need some fine tuning. Wash is leading the hospital team along with Tucker, and Carolina is heading up the distraction force with Donut. After Doyle and Kimball failed to get anywhere picking people, they’ve left it up to him and Carolina to suggest people for their teams for approval.  

That’s actually better than Wash expected. Carolina hangs back to discuss something with Kimball and Wash quietly excuses himself. He’s got a few ideas for the mission, one in particular that he would have laughed at a few years before. Because there’s one person in particular he wants for his squad. 

He finds Sarge, as expected, in the armory. 

Of all the Reds and Blues, it’s most jarring seeing the grizzled old soldier out of armor. His gray hair has just outgrown a crew cut and there’s a jagged scar over his brow, just one of many if the man’s stories are to be believed. Sarge sits on the edge of an ammo crate, dutifully cleaning his shotgun. Donut’s leaning against the side of it, chatting with two Feds that Wash recognizes even with their armor left behind. 

“Tobin? Schooner?” Wash can’t keep the surprise out of his voice as he approaches. “What--how are you here? I thought…”

They both turn and it’s easy to see the smile even through Tobin’s bushy beard. He thumps Wash hard on the shoulder and pulls him into a one armed hug. Wash doesn’t resist, letting a slight smile flit onto his face. 

“We were out on a supply run when the pirates hit the outpost. Got back and found everyone was, well… y’know. We’ve been out in Lothlorien since then, just got here this morning.” Tobin’s still as cheery as ever, grinning when he pulls back. “You’re looking pretty good for someone who got hit by a car, sir.”

Wash ducks his head and shrugs a little sheepishly. “I’ve had worse.”

Schooner snorts, arms crossing over a broad chest. Their bleached blonde hair is longer than Wash remembers, hanging down to cover one eye, contrasting with dark skin. They offer a hand and pull Wash into another brief embrace. “No kidding. Donut’s been telling us all the fun stories.”

“Oh no.”

“All good things, Wash, don’t you worry,” Donut chimes in, smiling brightly at him. “Did your meeting already wrap up? I figured you’d be going at it all day.”

“You and me both. The generals decided to let Carolina and I pick our squads for the mission, she’ll probably be sending you a message about it soon. Which is why I’m here, actually.” He glances at Sarge, who’s still methodically cleaning his gun as though he’s not carefully listening in to the conversation. “Sarge, how do you feel about raiding a hospital for supplies?”

“Feel like I won’t get to make much use of the new improvements I’ve been making to the jeep,” he says slowly, letting the gun rest on his lap. “But I suppose you’ll be needing a little Red blood on both sides of it.”

Wash nods, knowing better than to argue with that. “I was also hoping you’d be able to point us in the right direction once we get there. My medical knowledge is basic at best, but I know you’ve been working with Dr. Grey so you’re most familiar with what we’ll need.”

There’s a sudden light in Sarge’s eyes as he hops off the crate. “You, what you’re sayin’ is that you need me to lead the charge?”

“Uh, well, not exactly--”

“I humbly accept! As squad leader, I’m gonna need everyone in the group equipped with my latest creation.” He darts behind the crate, moving with shocking speed for someone his age. However old that is. Damn, Wash really needs to figure that out at some point. Sarge emerges a moment later, arms full of very strange looking, bright red grenades. 

“Sarge, what are those?” Wash asks, taking an instinctive step back, eyeing the objects dubiously. 

“My latest and greatest, introducing the red spots!” He hefts one of the the grenades. It’s lopsided and Wash is half sure it’s pulsing in his hand. “Just one of these little beauties is enough to paint a city block red with the blood of our enemies. And paint.”

“I… see. Well, I’m sure those’ll be useful for… something.” Wash rubs at his temple. 

“Skeptical, huh? Maybe I outta demonstrate. Donut, c’mere.”

“Yes sir!”

“Oh god.” Wash is across the room and between the pair of them in a breath, holding up his hands. “That’s really, really not necessary, Sarge. I’m sure they work just fine. But let’s maybe… save them for the next mission?”

“Fine.” Sarge reluctantly sets the grenades down. “Ain’t quite got ‘em worked out right anyhow, still need to get the weight even. They always go off to the left now.”

Wash’s brow furrows and, against every screaming instinct, he carefully picks up one of the grenades. It’s definitely pulsating. “Hmm, do you have the schematics for these? Maybe I could help fix that.” 

Sarge pulls out his datapad. It’s not an easy fix. Wash finds himself working on the grenades for the better part of the next several hours and he’s still not entirely sure just how the things work in the first place, or what’s making them pulse, but he hardly notices the time passing. There’s almost no practical use for them that he can see. Still, they’re interesting. For all his eccentricities, Sarge knows his way around an explosive, and that’s a lot less worrying than it used to be. 

As he walks to the dining hall with Sarge at his side, still chatting about their little project, Wash finds himself actually looking forward to the mission for once. 

* * *

The sound of screaming is one of those things that Wash is never going to get used to.

He jolts up from where he’s doing pushups on the mats in one of the training rooms. Carolina’s already on her feet and rushing for the door. There’s still two days until they’re scheduled to leave for the mission. They can’t take an attack right now. They’re not ready. Grey’s been doing what she can with the supplies she has left, but it’s not enough. 

A million worst case scenarios rush through Wash’s head as he sprints after Carolina, following her out of the building toward the screams. He skids to a stop a few feet outside, breathing hard. It’s not an attack. 

It’s a brawl. 

Today’s supposed to be the first day Fed and rebel squads train together. Wash has been putting it off as long as possible, but it had seemed like a good idea to give them at least a day or two before some of them are expected to work together on a mission. So much for that. 

There’s at least twenty of them, the two squads Wash is supposed to be training in five minutes and apparently any passersby who had seen whatever happened to start it. A few people are clustered around the sides, either cheering or watching with anxious eyes. No one’s really trying very hard to stop it. 

Carolina’s hands curl into fists as she strides forward and ducks neatly under a punch to pull apart two of the fighters. “Break it up!” 

A few people here and there stagger back, but that barely makes a dent in the screaming throng. Wash grits his teeth and squares his shoulders and moves after her. He takes an elbow to the face and a kick to the side, but he shoves apart pair after pair, voice rising to an earsplitting yell as he forces the last few back. Carolina moves to his side again, a bruise blossoming high on her cheek, her green eyes narrowed and furious. 

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing out here, soldiers?” she snarls, glaring around at the lot of them. 

No one seems interested in answering. Wash half expects someone to claim the other side started it, but maybe they’ve already learned that one doesn’t work. He lets out a breath. “Whoever’s here for training, get in there now,” he yells, jabbing an angry finger toward the gym. “I want twenty laps from all of you. The rest of you, take a walk. Go!”

There’s some muttering and a few less than polite remarks, but the chorus of ‘yes sir’s is louder as the soldiers move to obey. At least they’re still willing to listen. Wash drags a hand through his hair and blows a breath out through his nose. “Kimball and Doyle need to talk to them.”

Carolina snorts, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Somehow I don’t see that making things any better. They’re going to need more than some inspirational speeches.”

“Who said anything about inspiration? I just want someone else to have to yell at them for once.” He sighs. “I’ve got to head in and make sure they’re not trying to kill each other again. You mind talking to the generals about this? Even if they’re not going to do anything, they should at least know.”

“I will. I’ve got a meeting with Kimball later anyway.”

Wash blinks, one eyebrow rising in slight surprise. “You do? Since when?”

“Since always.” Well that’s strangely evasive. “We always have meetings on Tuesdays.”

“It’s Thursday.”

He looks at her for a long moment. Carolina’s expression is carefully even, giving away nothing, but there’s something a little stiff about her shoulders. She blinks first and turns away. “I still have to go. Good luck with training, Wash.”

“Thanks.” Wash is going to need a lot more than luck. 

By the time he gets into the training room, the squads he’s supposed to be working with look inches away from another brawl. Cursing under his breath, Wash strides forward, getting between them. “Knock it off, all of you! This ends right now!”

“But sir--”

“Unless the next words out of your mouth are ‘I’m sorry, Agent Washington, how many laps would you like me to run’ I don’t want to hear it, Private Misra,” he snaps, rounding on the rebel. 

Wash gives them another moment, half waiting for more protests. None come. “Alright, now let’s get started.”

He sticks to the basics. The original plan had been to pair off Feds and rebels for sparring, but Wash doesn’t want an earful from Dr. Grey for sending her a dozen new patients. It’s still a mess. There’s no more fights, but that’s a near thing and he has to physically haul a few of them away from each other more than once. 

By the time Wash sends them off, he’s almost screamed himself hoarse and he’s got the beginnings of a throbbing headache. There’s still a half hour before his next training session, so he pulls out his datapad and checks the list of names for the mission. A few of them were in that training session and he almost removes them just out of spite. 

He takes a breath and shakes his head. No, he can’t change things so close to the day of. Most of them are on Carolina’s team for the distraction or waiting with the medic in the pelican, so it’s not immediately his problem, but it’s still something to worry about. He shoots off a quick message to Carolina and then, after a moment of thought, forwards it to Kimball and Doyle. They should all know the issues and possible concerns. 

Shaking his head, Wash starts looking through individual files, vaguely wondering if he should have actually stopped to figure out what the fights were about. Probably one of them killed someone else’s friend. Or brother. Or lover. This whole planet is still a goddamn mess. 

The door opens and pulls Wash away from his less than cheerful thoughts. He looks up and has to dodge out of the way as Tucker and Grif barrel into the room looking panicked. “Wash, you’ve gotta hide us. Grif, grab something, we’ve gotta block the door!”

“Dude, that’s not gonna do shit. I say... we run for a pelican and take off.” Grif is half doubled over, gasping out the words as he clutches a stack of mats to stay upright. 

Wash looks between them, nerves rising. “What’s the matter? Is there another fight?”

Tucker shakes his head. Looking at him, Wash realizes he looks strangely giddy, like he might start laughing if he weren’t so frantic. “No, no--I was going to talk to Kimball, but, fuck--I think I hear her.”

The pair of them go still for a moment. Nothing happens. Wash lets out an exasperated noise. “Would one of you please tell me what’s going on?”

“Okay, okay.” For some reason, Tucker drops his voice to a whisper. “So Grif, me, and Caboose were going to see Kimball. We knock on the door, right? But she doesn’t answer. Her assistant’s gone, so we figure maybe she’s not there, but then we hear this--this fucking noise, and Jesus man, I almost lost my shit right there--”

“What? Why? What noise?”

Tucker stares at him flatly, one eyebrow rising. “Dude, c’mon, you know the kinda noise.”

Wash shakes his head, brow furrowing. And then the pieces click together and his eyes go wide, hand drifting to his mouth. “ _ No.  _ You’re not serious.”

“So fucking serious, it was like--”

“I swear to god, if you try to make the noise, I’m going out there and telling her exactly where you are and that it was your idea to send Caboose in there, man,” Grif snaps, probably sparing all of them from something very uncomfortable. 

Tucker huffs and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“So, like he says,” Grif picks up where Tucker left off, “we hear something and it’s like, well shit, we should probably go. But then it gets louder and there’s this thumping--”

Tucker jumps in. “--and Caboose freaks out. He thinks she’s being attacked, so he busts in there, just kicks the fucking door in and runs in and lifts up her desk and there’s--”

“ _ Carolina! _ ” They say the name at once just as the door to the room is thrown open.

“Hello boys.” Carolina’s back lit by the fluorescents in the hallway. She’s smiling, but it’s not a good smile. Her eyes scream murder. 

Tucker and Grif both yelp and throw themselves behind Wash, clutching at his arms with suddenly shaking hands. “Don’t let her eat us!”

“Pretty sure she already ate--bow chicka bow wow--”

“Not the time, Tucker,” Grif hisses sharply. 

Carolina takes a few slow steps into the room. “Wash, I suggest you move. Now.”

Wash glances down at the hands gripping at him. “I don’t think I can.” He pauses, carefully considering his next move. Slowly, he crosses his arms across his chest, the corner of his lips twitching. “So… I hear your meeting with Kimball went well.”

For a second, her eyes go wide then they narrow again and there’s a few more teeth in her smile. “Just for that, I’ll give you a five second head start. Five…”

“Go, go, go!” Wash turns, shoving at Tucker and vaulting over Grif before sprinting for the back door of the training room. He doesn’t stop running until he’s five blocks away and halfway up the fire escape of an abandoned apartment building. It’s a decent place to catch his breath until he gets a message from Tucker telling him it’s okay to stop hiding an hour later. 

Carolina’s probably still going to murder him in his sleep, which is part of why he sits next to her at dinner, at the table in the corner. Lately, she’s been sitting with the Reds on their side of the usual table, but Grif beat her there, so she’s picked the best spot in the place to stare menacingly at her apparent teammate. She glares at him from the corner of her eye. “If you’ve got something to say--”

“Are you happy, boss?”

The question seems to catch her by surprise. There’s a slight hesitation as she looks across the dining hall. Kimball’s patiently talking to a couple of rebel cadets, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a slight smile. Slowly, Carolina nods. “Yeah, I think I am. Or I’m getting there.”

“Good.” Wash offers her a warm smile and a gentle nudge with his elbow. “I like seeing you happy again.”

Carolina looks at him and scrunches up for face for a moment before jabbing her fork at him. “Don’t think I’m forgetting about earlier. But… thanks. What about you, Wash? Is there anyone that… makes you happy?”

He doesn’t mean to, but he lets his eyes drift over to the Reds and Blues. Caboose and Donut are playing some game on a datapad set between them. Sarge is making battle plans in his mashed potatoes. Next to him, Grif and Simmons are arguing, as always. And then there’s Tucker, lounging with one foot up on the bench, throwing in his two cents to the argument and laughing brightly when Grif snaps at him. Wash’s eyes linger there, as Tucker tosses his head back, his eyes closing, the laugh carrying halfway across the room. 

Tearing his eyes away, he looks back at Carolina. There’s a knowing smile there and she lightly nudges him back as she reaches over to steal the apple from his tray. “I thought so.”

Wash’s face burns and he ducks his head, jabbing at his salad. “It’s not--I haven’t… We aren’t… It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Carolina sighs next to him and gets up. She grips his shoulder. “You’re allowed to be happy, Wash. You’re allowed to want things.”

He doesn’t believe her, but he manages to shoot her a smile before she walks across the cafeteria to stand at Kimball’s shoulder. She looks good there, like she belongs. There’s a slight warmth in Wash’s chest that overrides the jealous turn of his stomach. Because he had meant it. Carolina deserves to be happy. At least one of them should get that after everything. 

“Hey Wash!”

Tucker’s voice makes him look up. He and Caboose are waving him over. Wash tries to fight down a smile as he rises from the table and moves to join them. His team shifts to make room. Maybe he can’t have what Carolina does, but this… this he can let himself have. It’s more than he deserves.

But it’s more than enough. 

* * *

Wash waits for Carolina’s group to disappear from sight before he gives the go ahead for his team to move in. They’ve got four jeeps. Fully loaded up, they should be able to carry back a decent amount of supplies, even with the massive gun turret in the one he’s sharing with Sarge and Tucker. If they’re lucky, they might be able to make multiple trips, but Wash isn’t quite comfortable with that. Carolina’s said she can give them as long as they need, but he doesn’t want to push it.

They approach quietly, going over the plan again in soft voices over the radio. The Feds and rebels don’t say much. Wash has been treated to sheepish silences and a wide berth in the hallways ever since the fight. He’s not exactly complaining. As long as it’s not an issue, he’ll take polite avoidance and a hint of fear. 

As expected, there’s not so much as a lookout near the hole in the city wall they drive through. They pause there briefly as Andersmith, Tobin, Ortega, and Jensen hop out of their respective jeeps to set several motion sensors along the wall. Wash taps at his radio. “Are we online?”

“All sensors active and responsive, sir,” says Corporal Park. “No hostiles detected.”

“Good. Simmons, anything on the longer range radar?”

“Nothing yet, just picking up a few guys heading toward the other squad. Whatever they’re doing, it’s fucking working.” He’s not wrong. There’s faint sounds of explosions and gunfire even from halfway across the city. 

Wash tries not to think about it. “Alright, let’s move. The hospital’s not far.”

Tucker nods and drives on. Even he’s keeping quiet for once. That’s actually a little unnerving. There’s none of the usual bickering from Grif and Simmons either, although Wash is pretty sure that’s for Park’s benefit. She’s riding shotgun in their jeep talking in a soft voice with Simmons as they monitor the sensors. 

There’s a ping for a private channel on his HUD that makes him blink. Wash opens it and immediately sighs. So that’s why Tucker’s been so quiet. 

“--no but when did that even happen?”

“Hell if I know, son. Seems like they’ve just taken a shine to her lately.”

Wash resists the urge to close the channel. “What are you two talking about?”

“Simmons and Grif adopting Park. Seems kinda weird that they’ve already got a kid together and they still won’t admit they’re a thing.”

“I’m not having this conversation.” Although he doesn’t leave the channel. It’s strangely comforting having their voices in his ear as he scans the road ahead of any sign of trouble. 

They reach the hospital without incident, though Tucker keeps muttering and grumbling something about the jeep. “I keep telling you, dude, the steering feels off. That stupid fucking gun in the back’s gotta be messing with the weight or something.”

“Nonsense!” Sarge hops out of the back and pats the side of the vehicle almost fondly. “This old girl can take it.”

Wash switches to the squad wide channel. “Alright everyone, I’ve had Dr. Grey forward everyone a list of the supplies we’re looking for. Andersmith, Tobin, you’re with Sarge. Jensen, Ortega, you go with Simmons. Tucker and I will scout out the first few floors. Don’t come in until we give the all clear. Grif and Park will stay with the cars and keep watch. Sync.”

He’s echoed in stereo and then turns to Tucker, who nods, gun at the ready, sword hanging at his side. Muting his exterior mic, Wash heads inside. There’s a few tripwires and motion sensors, but they disable those easily enough. “First floor is secure, moving up, Sarge your squad is clear to look for supplies.”

_ “About damn time, c’mon men.” _

The second floor is much the same. As is the third. Most of the place looks like it hasn’t been touched in ages. Sarge and Simmons report in, relaying the numbers. There’s honestly not as much in the way of supplies as Wash had been hoping for, but every little bit helps. They’ve at least got some of the things Dr. Grey had listed as ‘most important’, so that’s something. 

_ “Agent Washington?” _

Wash pauses his search of another long hallway. “What is it, Jensen?”

_ “One of the jeeps is all loaded up and there’s still nothing on the motion trackers.” _

He hesitates. “Wait until another jeep’s ready to go, then take both back to the ship.”

_ “Alright, sir!” _

Wash glances back over his shoulder at Tucker, who’s just finished clearing another hallway. “Heard anything from Carolina?”

“Uh, yeah, she messaged me a second ago. Hang on.” Tucker’s fingers drum on his gun as he sorts through things in his HUD. “She says they’re doing alright, but we should maybe think about hurrying the fuck up.”

“Not a bad idea.” It’s going well. Too well. Wash knows it’s probably paranoia talking, but they  _ are _ in enemy territory, so he’s pretty sure it’s at least a little warranted. Maybe it’s because things so rarely seem to go right, but this feels too easy. 

“Uh, Wash?” Tucker says a moment later and Wash is pretty sure the universe is fucking with him. “Got another message from Carolina. She says a bunch of pirates are headed back this way. They’re going to try to cut them off, but--”

“Time to move.” Wash clicks the squad channel on. “We’ve got incoming from the far wall. Grab what you can and be ready to leave.”

_ “We’ve got all the shit we can carry here,” _ says Grif.  _ “Think Jensen and Ortega are good to go too.” _

“Alright, head out now. We’ll be right behind you with the other two jeeps.” He looks to Tucker and matches his nod, both of them moving together back toward the stairs. 

They meet Sarge at the jeep. He’s already up on the gun, peering through the scopes into the abandoned ruin of the city. “About time. They’re almost here.”

“They shouldn’t know about us, though,” Wash says, hopping into the passenger’s side. 

As if on cue, bullets start whizzing their way. Goddamn it. 

Tobin and Andersmith pull up alongside them in their jeep as Tucker leaps into the driver’s seat. He jams the ignition and the jeep revs to life for a moment. The engine sputters. Wash can hear Tucker frantically jamming the pedals, but they’re not moving. 

“What’s going on?” Wash instantly has his hands moving over the dash, checking the onboard computer. 

“I don’t fucking know! I told you before it was handling weird. I can’t get it to move!” Tucker’s pushing every button, yanking on every lever. Nothing. 

“Wash, get up here and lay down some cover fire,” Sarge calls before jumping down from the gunner position. “I know my jeeps, lemme see what I can do.”

“Right.” Wash is up, manning the gun in an instant. His entire body shakes with the motion of it as he shoots a massive blast at the incoming jeep, catching one of the tires and sending it flying. There’s a surge of relief.

And then the lights on the gun go dark and it’s an immobile statue in his hands and the feeling curls up and turns to ash. “Sarge, there’s something wrong!”

Unintelligible muttering and cursing drift up from the underside of the vehicle. A moment later, Sarge is out from under the car again and climbing up next to Wash. There’s a darkness to his voice as he drops to his knee and pulls open some of the paneling where the gun meets the car. “Someone’s meddled with the jeep.”

There’s a horrible cold feeling that settles in Wash’s gut. “What do you mean? No one could’ve touched it while we were in the hospital, Grif and Park were out here the entire time--they would’ve seen someone try to get close.”

“You’re not wrong, son.” Sarge keeps his focus on the wiring inside the turret, voice low, more serious than Wash has ever heard it. “I’ll do what I can, but without my tools, that ain’t much.”

Wash drops to one knee, peering inside the paneling, brow furrowing. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Open it up on the other side. Someone’s messed with the wires going to the power, mixed ‘em up with the engine’s. Sending the plans to your HUD now, just fix anything that ain’t where it should be.” 

Nodding, Wash forces the metal plating open as the message pops up and opens, the schematics laying themselves out. “Tucker, are there anymore incoming?”

“I don’t see any--wait fuck, yeah there’s more on the way. Y’all need to hurry it up back there. Carolina says she’s on her way, but the pirates are getting here first.”

“We can try to lead them away, sir,” offers Andersmith before standing and lobbing a grenade overhead toward the sound of incoming tires. 

“Negative Lieutenant, we need the supplies you’ve got packed up. If we can’t get this jeep moving, we’re going to need yours to get out.”

“Of course, sir. Grenade incoming!”

Wash ducks, but the grenade doesn’t make it, Tobin shooting it out of the air with his rifle. “We’ll keep you covered, Wash!”

Heart pounding in his ears, Wash nods, forcing his hands steady as he tries to reconnect the wires. More bullets fly by and he ducks down as Tucker curses from the front, hopping out of the jeep to crouch behind it for cover. Tobin shoots two more grenades out of the air and curses as he only nicks a third, sending it off course. The explosion rocks the jeep, shrapnel flying through the air. 

A sharp, biting pain cuts into Wash’s shoulder and he can’t stop the cry that comes out of his mouth. Tucker yells for him and Sarge’s hands go to his shoulders to steady him. “Easy, son.”

But Wash can’t focus on the pain because there’s a massive shard of metal embedded in the gun and the lights are back on, but that doesn’t seem like a good thing. Smoke rises from the jeep, a soft hissing noise going louder and louder. “Get away from the car!”

“Fuck!” He sees Tobin yank Tucker up into their jeep before it speeds away and he tries to rise, but the pain in his shoulder shoots through in and sends him back down. 

“Sarge, go!”

But the old man is grabbing Wash’s arm and slinging it around his shoulders. With Sarge supporting him, he half rises and they stumble out of the jeep. They’re only a few feet away when the gun detonates. He feels Sarge’s hand on his back shoving him forward before the blast hits and a tire catches him in the back, pain erupting through his arm as he’s thrown forward. 

“Wash!” 

His name cuts through the ringing in his ears as he forces himself up on one arm, trying to clear the stars from his eyes. Aqua armor fills his vision and Wash hisses as Tucker helps him sit up. “Dude, you alright?”

“I’m fine, just a little dazed--where’s Sarge?” Wash looks around, a horrible hollow feeling settling in his stomach.

“I don’t know, I couldn’t see him after the blast.” Tucker’s arm goes around his waist as he helps Wash to his feet. The adrenaline in his veins and panic surging through him stops him from thinking too hard about the way he leans into Tucker. 

Squinting, he tries to peer through the smoke kicked up but the jeep. Then he spots it a hint of red under what looks like the hood of the jeep. “There!”

They both stumble on their mad dash over. Sarge is half covered by rubble and the remains of the jeep and the turret. Wash checks his vitals on his HUD and curses as red lights flash critical. “We’ve got to get him up.”

Wash is basically down an arm, so he can only curse and yell in frustration as he tries to remove bits of the jeep. Tucker has more luck, forcing the hood up and off. Footsteps approach at a run and more hands join in as Andersmith and Tobin help clear the rest of the wreckage away and drag Sarge clear. 

“Oh god…” Wash fights the bile rising in his throat as his eyes go to Sarge’s mangled left leg, the ground under it stained with blood, the end of it coming much sooner than it should. Dropping to his knees, he rolls Sarge onto his back, still scanning. There’s a very weak groan. “He’s alive, but he’s losing blood fast.”

Tucker’s panicking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, his foot’s gone--what the fuck do we do?”

There has to be something they can do. Something to stop the wound. His eyes land on the sword at Tucker’s hip. Reaching out, he grabs Tucker’s wrist. “You need to cauterize the wound.”

“What if we can find it? Can we put it back--”

“Tucker!” Wash yanks him down and grabs both sides of his helmet, ignoring the jolt of pain that shoots along his arm. He understands the urge to panic, he’s not far off from that himself, but there’s no time. Pulling Tucker close, their helmets lightly knock together as he almost tries to stare through the visor. “It’s gone. You need to do this now or he’s going to die.”

Tucker takes a great shaky breath and nods. Reaching up, he squeezes Wash’s wrists for a moment before turning away, shoulders stiffening as he moves to crouch over Sarge’s leg. 

“Right, right, okay. Uh hold him down or something, he might move.” There’s the familiar woosh and burst of energy as he lights up the sword. 

“Andersmith, get the car, we need to move him as soon as the wound stops bleeding.”

“On it, sir!”

The rebel rushes off. Tobin lingers, hesitating for a moment before dropping to his knees at Sarge’s other side, hand going to his shoulder. “I’ll help hold him.”

Wash nods. “Tucker, do it now!”

“Fuck me.” The noise is horrible and Wash is glad for the filters on his helmet, because he’s sure the smell is worse. Sarge jolts and shakes, howls that cut straight through Wash’s chest bursting out of him. Wash presses his good arm down across his knee, holding it steady until Tucker leans back. 

“Think I got it. Can I go throw up now?”

“Wait till we get to the ship, Captain.” Wash might follow his lead once they get there. “We need to get him in the jeep.”

The problem of how to fit five people in an already loaded jeep is solved when Carolina arrives on a motorcycle moments later. Wash climbs into the back of the jeep after Tucker and Tobin load up Sarge. Tucker hops on the back of the bike with Carolina and they speed toward the ship. After getting in touch with Private Song and telling her the situation, Wash shuts off his radio, his focus on Sarge’s slumped form leaning against him. 

Someone had sabotaged the jeep. If Sarge hadn’t shoved him, if he had just gone like Wash told him to, he’d be the one… he can’t make himself look at Sarge’s leg. Fuck, he has to tell Grif and Simmons. They need to know. He swallows the bile on his tongue and turns on the radio again. 

There’s a very weak groan next to him. He wishes it made him feel any better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's been reading and commenting! I'm always so happy to see new people finding this story! So anyway, finally a little bit more action here and... one of the worst jokes I've ever written. This is another one of those parts that I've had figured out for ages. I don't really like killing off characters, but I've got no problem maiming them a little. Anyway, I really hope everyone likes this chapter!


	14. How the Crowds Went Wild

“I’m fine, Private Song. You should be--Sarge is--”

“Sarge is stable for now, Agent Washington.” The medic is doing her best to sound firm and commanding despite her soft, high pitch voice. “There’s not much more I can do for him here, but I need to examine you.”

“And I already told you, I’m fine!”

“There’s a piece of metal sticking out of your arm!” 

Oh. Is that what that is? Wash shifts a little, subtly trying to look over his shoulder. It certainly doesn’t feel pleasant, though the pain is more like a dull, constant throb now. He can see the edges of rusted metal peeking out from torn kevlar where the armor doesn’t quite cover. “It’s not that bad.”

A hand lands on his uninjured shoulder and Wash blinks up at Simmons, who gently pushes until he’s sitting down again. He and Grif had wordlessly moved to carry Sarge onto the pelican, carefully setting him next to Ortega, who had made the mistake of letting Jensen drive and somehow ended up with a sprained wrist as a result. Tucker and Carolina had made vaguely threatening remarks, but it really hadn’t taken much for Wash to join the Reds on board. 

Grif sinks heavily into the seat next to him. “Just let her deal with it, you’re bleeding all over the place, dumbass.” 

He’s been sullen and irritable since they took off, spending the first twenty minutes of the flight arguing with the pilot about the best way back to Armonia. Simmons hasn’t said a word. That’s half the reason Wash goes quiet himself, bracketed by the Reds as Song works on his shoulder. His eyes keep straying across to the other side of the pelican. 

Sarge is strapped in, his leg propped up in the seat next to him, his head lolling forward. Wash’s HUD helpfully confirms that he’s stable. That doesn’t mean he’s in decent shape. Song had given him something to knock him out until they get to Armonia. Tucker had done a pretty good job of stopping the blood rushing out of him through his leg, but there’s plenty of damage to be done if he starts thrashing around. 

Don’t look at his leg, don’t look at it. 

Wash breathes through his nose and forces his eyes to the floor. At least there’s the pain in his shoulder to keep his mind from wandering. Song carefully removes the metal and quickly fills the wound with bio foam and covers it with gauze. “Now just let it set for a while, sir.”

He nods numbly, muttering his gratitude. Song moves back to Sarge, briefly crouching before him, her med tool in hand. The silence is heavy, sucking the air out of the ship. Wash glances sideways at Grif and then Simmons, both of them unnaturally still and quiet. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Don’t.” It’s the first thing Simmons has said, his voice breaking a little on the word. “He’s going to be fine.” 

Wash finds himself nodding again, guilt rising up his throat that tastes like blood. 

The trip back feels ten times longer than it is. Grey and a team of medics meet them in the loading bay. She’s not in armor so Wash can see the way she sets her jaw and the steel in her eyes as she directs the medics to lift Sarge onto a gurney. Grif and Simmons move to follow, but she cuts them off. “Oh no, you two are staying put. As soon as I’m done with him, you’ll be the first to know.”

Grif leans around her, watching the gurney go. “But we--”

“No buts!” Her expression softens a little and she reaches for Grif’s arm, gently squeezing his elbow. “I promise, I’ll get him through. Captain Tucker’s quick thinking out there probably saved him. He’s going to be alright, Grif.”

Huffing, Grif jerks his arm away. “Yeah, whatever. Simmons, you--”

It’s impossible to tell what Simmons’ face is doing with his helmet on, but as soon as Sarge disappears out the door, he turns away and starts walking toward the nearest door, moving faster and faster until he leaves the loading bay flat out sprinting. Grif sighs, shoulders slumping. “Goddamn it.”

He doesn’t run, but Grif hurries after him. Wash watches the door for a moment before a tug at his elbow pulls his attention away. There’s a fond smile on Grey’s face. “They’ll look after each other, don’t worry. Now, you’re coming along with me to get that shoulder looked at.”

She leans around him, looking back toward the ship. “You too, Diego.”

Private Ortega is still lingering near the pelican’s ramp, looking the way Grif and Simmons went. “Oh, right, yeah… yeah I’m coming.”

He falls into step at Wash’s side as Dr. Grey leads them along and holds open the door to the infirmary for them. “Someone’ll be along in a minute to patch you too up, I’ve got to go check on the colonel, but I’ll stop by later.”

Wash nods and steps inside, reluctantly moving to the first open bed. Ortega slowly follows his example, moving to the bed opposite him, seeming almost dazed. “You alright, private?”

“Huh? Yeah, yeah I’m good.” Ortega can’t seem to look at him, helmet directed at the floor. Wash frowns. That’s a little odd. 

There’s not much time to think about it before Song skids into the infirmary, her armor switched out for lavender scrubs, long dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She offers both of them a small smile. “Hello again, boys. Um, I mean, Agent Washington, sir. I’ll need both of you out of that armor please.”

She moves to help Wash remove his after the fourth painful hiss he can’t quite hide. After all the time in the capital without it, he’s reluctant to let his armor go again, but he carefully stacks it next to the bed, that familiar ‘too exposed’ feeling settling in as he pulls off his helmet. Song rattles off information about the wound at lightning speed, making a few notes to herself on a datapad as she goes. “Ooookay, looks like nothing was damaged, but you’re going to need to wear a sling until it heals properly so you don’t strain the wound. I’ll go get that for you as soon as I’m done with Ortega.”

“Alright, thank you, private.” He shifts a little, sitting on the bed, keeping his right arm curled in toward his chest where she had placed it. Just great, his first mission in weeks and he’s already hurt again. Of course, it’s not like he got the worst of it. 

Guilt washes over him again and he glances over at Song, where she’s smiling and chattering away at Ortega. “Any word from Dr. Grey about Sarge?”

She falters for a moment and shakes her head. “Not yet,” she says, biting at her lip before forcing a smile. “I’m sure he’ll be alright.”

Somehow that doesn’t make Wash feel a whole lot better. Letting out a breath, he reaches down, fumbling through his armor for his datapad. There’s a sigh from Song. “Agent Washington, I literally just asked you to sit still.”

“I know, I know!” He holds up the datapad and quickly settled back on the bed, arm back in position. “I just need to send a message to Doyle and Kimball about the accident.”

Song nods slowly. “Alright. Do you know what caused it? Smith said something about the jeep.”

Wash feels his expression cloud over as he jabs at the datapad with a little more force than necessary. “It was sabotaged.”

She gasps, hand flying to her mouth. “But Captain Grif said--”

“It wasn’t the pirates,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Oh gosh.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to do that.”

Ice runs through Wash’s veins as he slowly turns to look at Ortega. The private’s dark, curly hair is a little flattened down from his helmet, his heavy lidded eyes fixed on the floor. His tan skin has a sickly pallor to it, guilt etched into every inch of his face. 

“What was that, Ortega?” Wash rises slowly, voice carefully even. 

Ortega winces, but he doesn’t look up. “It was… it was just supposed to be a stupid joke. I-I heard a few of the guys talking. The jeep was just supposed to stall. We didn’t mean any--”

Wash has him slammed against the wall in an instant, Song leaping back with a soft shriek, but he can’t hear her over the rushing in his ears. Arm pressed to Ortega’s throat, Wash’s fingers itch for the knives left behind with his armor. He knew. The Feds did this. All Wash can see is red. “ _ Why _ ?” he growls out the word. “You think this is funny, private? Is this all some kind of joke to you?”

“No, sir! I-I didn’t--I would never!” Ortega’s eyes are wide and panicked, his voice rasping slightly, hands weakly trying to push Wash’s arm away. 

“Agent Washington, let him go! S-someone help!” 

There’s a clatter behind him, but Wash pays no attention as he shoves Ortega harder into the wall. The sound of pain is satisfying, but it’s not enough. He wants to take one of those knives and show Ortega just what that ‘stupid joke’ did. He wants to find every last Fed in the damn city, make them all see--

“Wash, what are you doing?”

Two sets of hands in aqua gloves yank him back so hard he stumbles. Carolina fills his vision and the red fades away. Tucker’s arms lock tight around him, pulling him back against a still armor covered chest. Wash struggles for only a moment before letting them pull him away, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He peers around Carolina, finding Song and Donut helping Ortega back onto a bed. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, dude?” Tucker hisses at him. 

“He knew.” Wash bites out the words, hands curling into useless fists. 

Carolina goes still, her brow furrowing, though she keeps a hand pressed to his chest as if he might lunge again. “What do you mean?”

“The jeep was sabotaged. And he knew.” Venom drips from every word and that sense satisfaction is back when he sees Ortega wince, gaze dropping back to the floor. 

Tucker’s arms loosen a little and Wash feels him shift. “What? Oh you piece of shit--”

“Tucker, Wash,  _ stand down _ .” Carolina’s eyes burn as she stares them down. Slowly, she turns toward Ortega, gaze still icy. “Explain. Now.”

The private seems to shrink in on himself, clutching his sprained arm tight to his chest. “There’s a couple guys--they like messing with the rebels, just, y’know, little things, nothing dangerous. They’ve been rigging jeeps to make them stall. It’s not supposed to hurt anyone!”

Carolina crosses her arms over her chest. “I want names, soldier.”

“I-I don’t know all of them--”

“Then I will have you report to the generals and pick them out of a line up.”

“That’s enough!” 

Wash’s eyes go wide as Donut straightens up to his full height and steps between Carolina and Ortega, spreading his arms defensively as if she might try to push past him. His eyes are hard and his jaw is set. “You leave him alone!”

“Donut--”

“No! Now you listen to me, all three of you.” Donut’s hands go to his hips. He’s easily the shortest person in the room, but his voice fills it without trying. “I’m worried too, but you don’t get to take it out poor, defenseless privates after they’ve been stripped down and exposed. Go tell the generals, they should know, but leave him out of it.”

Wash stares, eyes wide as Carolina nods stiffly and strides out of the infirmary. Donut watches her go before sitting next to Ortega on the hospital bed, hand gentle on his shoulder, voice soft and consoling. 

“Um, Agent Washington?” Song approaches tentatively, holding out a sling toward him with one hand, like she’s scared to get too close. 

Shit. He probably deserves that. Shifting, he pulls free of the loose grip Tucker still has on him for some reason and takes the sling. “Thank you, Private Song. I’ll take my armor and go.”

“Don’t worry about the armor, I’ll get someone to bring it to your room later,” she says, managing a small, timid smile before turning away, heading back toward Ortega. 

Wash lets out a breath and fumbles with the sling, trying to get it on with one hand. There’s a scoff from Tucker as he tugs the sling out of Wash’s hand. “Let me do that, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Sighing, Wash relents, letting Tucker get his arm in place, ignoring the goosebumps that rise on his skin when glove covered hands brush against his neck as the strap is set in place over his shoulder. He doesn’t protest when Tucker grabs him by the elbow and tugs him out of the room, walking along silently at his side for several long minutes as they head out of the building. 

“Where are we going?” he finally asks as they step outside. The mission must have taken longer than Wash thought, the sun’s almost setting now, covering Armonia in a warm orange glow. Tucker’s got his helmet tucked under his arm, the soft light backing him like a halo. 

“Gotta find Grif and Simmons. Heard they took off. Figured they probably went back to Friendship Mountain or whatever the fuck Caboose calls it.”

It’s not a bad idea, so Wash nods and lets Tucker pull him along. He’s not sure why Tucker’s hand stays attached to his arm. There’s no one around to hear, so he could ask. “Are you alright?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine, dude. I’m not the one that got blown up.” Tucker says it like it’s supposed to be a joke, but the smile slides off his face a moment later, his gaze dropping to his armor plated boots. “Just… I dunno. It’s stupid.”

“I’ll bet it’s not.” Wash offers a gentle smile when Tucker looks at him. 

Tucker sighs. “Alright, I guess I’ve always known shit like this could happen, y’know? I mean, we’re fighting a fucking war. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last ten years. People get hurt, shit happens. I get that. But it’s… it doesn’t usually feel real until, y’know, something like today.”

“I know what you mean.” Wash lets out a breath and stares out at the empty buildings, feeling Tucker’s eyes staring into the side of his head. “With my--the Freelancers, I used to think we were untouchable. We were the best of the best, it didn’t matter how many battles we were in or missions we went on, nothing could ever really hurt us.”

Unconsciously, his eyes go to his right hand, staring at the mottled mark on his palm. “But even we weren’t invincible. Realizing that, it changes things. It makes everything more… real, I guess. And that never gets any easier.”

He’s still staring at his hand when there’s a soft sound next to him that must be Tucker tugging off his glove, because dark fingers covered in calluses from his sword gently brush over his, thumb tracing the lines of his palm. It’s a strange feeling. A shiver goes down Wash’s spine that isn’t entirely unpleasant. 

“Who were they?” Tucker asks, voice soft, like he’s not supposed to say it. 

“York.” Wash gets the name out around the lump in his throat. “His name was York. I uh… I mentioned him before, infiltration specialist.”

“Yeah, but… what was he like?” 

And because Tucker looks up at him with those wide, brown eyes as he gently links their fingers together and gives Wash’s hand a squeeze, he tells him. 

* * *

They find Grif and Simmons in third floor lounge of Friendship Mountain. The two of them are sprawled out on one of the couches, so Wash and Tucker take the other. As he sits down, Wash opens his mouth to speak, only for Grif to wordlessly hand him a bottle of whiskey. He hesitates for a moment, glancing at Tucker, who’s working on dumping his armor in the corner, where maroon and orange plating are already piled. Probably better to just go with it.

And after today, he could really use a fucking drink. 

Wash takes the bottle and, since there’s no cups floating around as far as he can tell, drinks straight from it. He can’t quite stop himself from making a face at the taste. Grif’s definitely burnt off his tastebuds if he likes this stuff. Maybe he can slip out to his room to grab the bottle of schnapps he still hasn’t opened. 

“Not used to the hard stuff, Wash?” Tucker plops down next to him and casually grabs the bottle out of his hand. 

“Not really.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never been much of a drinker.”

Tucker takes a drink, and Wash turns away so he doesn’t watch his throat move, instead looking over at Grif and Simmons. Judging by the contents of the bottle, and the beer cans on the floor, they’ve been there a while already. Simmons is stretched out, flesh arm thrown over his eyes, glasses dangling from metallic fingers, his legs draped across Grif’s lap. 

Grif’s careful not to dislodge his legs as he reaches down and grabs two of the still unopened cans. He sets one on Simmons’ stomach as he opens his own. “You drink with Donut,” Grif says idly. “You gotta shoot a guy before you can get drunk with him or something?”

The words are casual, but they cut like a knife and Wash shrinks in on himself, hands tensing. Maybe he should just go. 

But Tucker reaches across him to smack Grif’s shoulder. “Dude, be more of a bitch.”

Sighing, Grif tips his head back, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out. Shit. Look man, I’m just--”

“It’s alright,” Wash says quickly. “I know today’s been…”

Grif shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just being shitty. Haven’t had nearly enough whiskey, pass that back.”

He makes a grabby motion toward Tucker, who hands the bottle back and then sorts through the beer, finding a few more full cans. Taking one for himself, he sets another on Wash’s lap as he makes himself comfortable on the couch. Eventually, he finds what’s probably a good spot, leaning against Wash’s side, legs stretched out, taking up the rest of the space. “So, has Donut seen drunk Wash?”

“Uh, we don’t usually drink that much.” Wash gets the beer open and takes a drink. It’s got much less of a burn than the whiskey, but it doesn’t taste any more pleasant. Now he remembers why he never wanted to drink with Maine and Wyoming. Other than their day long debates about the best microbrews, whatever the hell those are. 

“So none of us have actually seen you drunk? Well, that’s gotta change. You’re gonna need like ten more of those, start chugging, dude,” Tucker says, lightly elbowing his side.

Humming, Wash leans back against the couch. “Not sure that’s the best idea. I don’t know that I’d be a very fun drunk. I think I usually just get kind of sleepy.”

Tucker snorts. “Even more reason to get you drunk.”

Wash can’t stop himself from snickering at that as he shakes his head. “Fair enough.”

Casually, he glances over at Grif and Simmons and the room feels heavy again. They both look exhausted. It not for the way Simmons keeps letting out little irritated huffs every time Grif shifts his legs, Wash might assume he’s sleeping. The question circles around in his head a dozen times before he finally lets it out. “Have you heard anything?”

“Not yet,” Simmons says. There’s a forced calm to his voice. Finally, he moves, sitting up against the armrest of the couch as he pops open the beer and drinks at least half of it in one go. “Grey’s been sending updates, but she’s still working on him. There was… he got some shrapnel in his other leg too, and his gut. She says the left leg was worst though. Tucker, you probably saved him with that sword thing. So uh… that’s good. Thanks.”

The last few works are a little choked, and Simmons presses a hand to his eyes and takes a few long breaths before finishing off the rest of the can. It crumples with a sickening crunch in his robotic hand before he tosses it away and grabs the whiskey from Grif. 

Tucker shifts against Wash’s side, tipping his head back in a way that makes his dreads cascade down Wash’s shoulder. “Don’t thank me, dude. I froze out there. Wouldn’t have done shit if Wash didn’t snap me out of it.”

Frowning, Wash turns a little. There’s not really a good way to see much of Tucker’s face from where he’s sitting, especially since Tucker doesn’t really move in a way that’s cooperative, staying limp against him, head falling to rest on Wash’s collarbone. “You would’ve done it. You just needed a second to breathe.”

“I dunno--”

“Would one of you fuckers just say ‘you’re welcome’? Jesus fucking Christ,” Grif snaps, though there’s more exasperation in his tone than anything else. “This is our pity party, not yours. You two can moon over each other later.”

Tucker spits a mouthful of beer halfway across the room and Wash starts spluttering. “That’s not--we don’t--”

Grif scoffs and shakes his head, grabbing another can of beer. “You two are fucking hopeless.”

After Wash thumps him on the back a few times, Tucker stops coughing enough to shoot a glare at Grif. “Like you’re one to talk. I mean, c’mon, anyone that spends five seconds with you two can tell you’re in love, but you haven’t done shit!”

A very strange look passes between Grif and Simmons. They’re definitely having some sort of silent communication. Simmons blushes faintly and Grif raises an eyebrow. After a very long moment, Simmons sighs and shrugs and sinks back against the couch. “Fine, whatever, you tell them.”

Wash glances down at Tucker, who meets his eyes with a shrug and a look of confusion before turning to Grif again. “Tell us what?”

Grif coughs, awkwardly clearing his throat, eyes fixed purposefully on the ceiling. “Yeah, we uh… haven’t been doing nothing. We’re sorta, well, engaged now. But it’s not like it’s a big deal or--”

“What?!” Tucker lunges forward across Wash, grabbing Grif by the shoulders, eyes wild. Pressing himself back into the couch, Wash holds tight to the can in his hand Tucker almost sends flying and tries very hard not to think about his current position. He just needs to not move and not breathe or pay any attention to the fact that Tucker’s basically in his lap right now. So instead, he turns his attention toward Grif, who’s trying to bat Tucker’s hands away. 

“Calm down! Jesus, it’s not like we’re married or something.” But Grif’s pointedly looking away and his tone definitely carries traces of ‘or something’. 

Tucker leans back a little, though not enough to leave Wash’s personal space, which is just fine and not an issue at all. He shakes his head and it seems like he can’t quite decide what to do with his face. “Yeah, but you’re gonna get married, that’s what that means, dumbass. When the fuck did you get engaged?”

“Uh.” Grif glances over at Simmons and they have another one of those silent conversations. How often do they do that? With all their bitching, Wash must’ve missed the quieter conversations. “A while back… right before we went to fight the Meta and, uh, you that one time.”

Wash blinks, taken aback. “Wait, wait, wait. You’ve been engaged since before I joined Blue Team?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Simmons shrugs. “We figured we were probably gonna die, so… well, Grif said if we made it out, we should just… y’know. Go for it.”

Grif picks up when Simmons’ voice falters. “Right, so then we didn’t die, obviously. But we still kinda wanted to, so we said fuck it and stuck with it. Decided we’d get married after the war, whenever the fuck that ends up being now. Seems like we keep running into more fucking wars.”

“And you just never said anything? To anyone?” Wash doesn’t mean for his voice to rise in pitch, but it’s steadily climbing. He and Tucker had had a few conversations, mostly half joking, about when Grif and Simmons would finally admit to being more than friends. There had even been talks of a bet that Donut and Caboose had been dragged into as well. 

So apparently none of them have been paying close enough attention. 

Both of them shrug. “Didn’t seem important,” Grif says, carefully casual. “Plus, if we had, Donut would’ve tried to throw a stupid engagement party and then help us plan the damn thing, and I’m not dealing with all that shit.”

That’s… not a terrible reason. Wash likes Donut, it’s very hard not to after spending enough time with him. But say the word ‘party’ when he’s within earshot and he turns into an extremely well prepared monster. Being menaced by a tiny blonde with a scrapbook and big ideas is surprisingly terrifying. 

“So you two assholes better not say anything.” Grif jabs a warning finger at Tucker’s face. 

“Fine, but I get dibs on best man.” Tucker’s grinning as he finally leans back to sit on the actual couch again and Wash remembers how to breathe. 

Simmons stares at him, brow furrowed. “What? Why?”

Tucker snorts and rolls his eyes. “Dude, everyone knows being best man is the best part of a wedding. I get to drink as much a I want, make a fucking awesome speech, and go home with the hottest person there,” he says, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “Win, win, and fucking win.”

Rolling his eyes, Wash sighs and wordlessly reaches out a hand. There’s a nod with way too much understanding in it from Simmons as he passes over the bottle. It suddenly occurs to Wash that he’s never been very good at being subtle, and if he and Tucker had been making bets about Grif and Simmons…

The whiskey’s just as disgusting the second time around, but it’s harder to notice when he drinks it fast. Tucker claps him on the shoulder and carefully takes the bottle from him after a few long moments. “Whoa, dude, I thought you said you don’t drink much.”

“I don’t.” And that’s probably why the room suddenly seems to be swaying a little and there’s a warm sort of buzz in his head. Wash can’t decide if he likes it or not. He leans back against the couch and this time doesn’t stop his eyes from wandering to Tucker as he takes a drink for himself. 

Bottle still in hand, Tucker gets up and starts practicing his best man speech, gestures and jokes growing more intense and vulgar as he goes. Wash props up his good arm on the armrest, chin resting on his hand as he watches. He’s vaguely aware of Grif patting his shoulder in a way that’s more than a little condescending. 

“Dude, you are so fucked.”

Well, Wash definitely can’t argue with that. 

* * *

Between the throbbing in his head and the memory of holding Tucker’s hair back playing on repeat every time he closes his eyes, Wash has very little patience when he steps into the war room. His eyes are fixed on his datapad, reading over the latest reports from Emily. The words ‘alive and stable’ are repeated again and again. It should be reassuring, but it doesn’t do much to get rid of the horrible, hollow feeling in his gut.

The silence is what makes him look up. He’s never known the war room not to be full of furious shouts. There’s more people than usual. Doyle and Kimball sit on either side of the long table, their assistants at their sides. Carolina stands across from the door, Epsilon flickering at her shoulder. Her face it carefully devoid of emotion, but Wash is sure the hands behind her back have curled into fists. Caboose is next to her, for once looking solemn, twisting his hands together, picking at the sleeves of his sweater. Grif and Simmons are there as well, sitting maybe a little closer to each other than necessary. 

Behind him, the door opens again and a pained yawn alerts him to Tucker’s presence before the captain trudges in and moves to lean against the table next to him. Wash risks a glance at him and finds Tucker shooting him a small smile that makes his stomach flutter like he’s a fucking middle schooler. This is not the time, he tries to tell the feeling, but he’s pretty sure there’s a part of his brain that’s taking revenge on him now for never properly dealing with those hormones back when he was more of a person. 

The smile slides right off Tucker’s face when Doyle clears his throat, and Wash has never heard anyone sound so uncomfortable doing so before. “Perhaps we should get started,” he says, hesitantly glancing around the room.

Kimball opens her mouth, but Simmons beats her to it. “We’re waiting for Donut.”

There’s a silent sigh from Kimball and she looks to Carolina as she speaks. “Captain Simmons…” 

Whatever Kimball expects to find on Carolina’s face, she doesn’t find it, her words stuttering for a moment before she turns back to the rest of the room. “I understand wanting to have all your friends present, but--”

“Our team,” Grif says sharply, gaze fixed on the table. 

Kimball blinks at him, obviously taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

“Not friends. Our team.” And then Grif’s mouth contorts in a way that looks almost painful as he slams both hands down on the table, the sound making Wash wince more from the headache than his usual twitchiness for once. 

Rising from his chair, Grif shoots a challenging look toward Kimball. “Our fucking  _ team _ , who keep running missions for you and putting our asses on the line for your stupid planet, even though you promised-- _ promised _ us we’d be off this goddamn rock ages ago!”

Kimball’s shoulders slump a little, but she keeps her face neutral. “I understand that you’re frustrated, Captain Grif--”

“No! No, you don’t understand! I want out of this stupid war, I’ve wanted out since before we got here. The only reason I’m still here is because the rest of these morons won’t leave!” He waves a vaguely accusative finger around the room. 

“I’m tired of the missions. I don’t wanna order more stupid kids into battles I don’t care about to get their heads blown off! But I have to, cause otherwise I’m just gonna be sitting on my goddamn thumb waiting for the report to come in that says Donut’s been shot again, or Caboose, or--or Simmons,” and there his voice breaks in a way that puts a lump in Wash’s throat, “and that’s fucking bullshit! And y’know, it’d be one thing if it was the pirates, but no, this was  _ you _ and your fucking civil war! So you can wait five goddamn minutes for the rest of my team to get here!”

Grif’s chest is rising and falling like he just ran a marathon. Or half a lap, given well… this is still Grif. Wash risks a glance around the room. Kimball looks as though she’s just been slapped in the face, eyes wide, almost hurt, expression painfully open for a moment before she puts the carefully controlled look back in place and nods. Doyle just looks like he wants to crawl under the table and die. 

Simmons grabs at Grif’s arm and tugs him back into his seat. Wash hadn’t thought it possible for silence to be more uncomfortable than the one before, but he’s wrong. They end up waiting ten minutes for Donut, who enters the room a little out of breath, hair slightly disheveled, dark circles under his bright eyes. “Hey guys, sorry to keep everyone waiting. I just dozed off for a bit.”

“Just sit the fuck down, dipshit,” Grif says, kicking the chair next to him away from the table for Donut.

“Okey dokey.” 

There’s still a moment’s pause after Donut sits down. Very hesitantly, Doyle rises from his seat. “First of all, I must offer my most humble apologies to all of you. This incident should not have occurred.”

“No fucking shit.” Simmons’ mutter is soft, but easily reaches down the table. 

Doyle clears his throat and shifts, clasping his hands behind his back. “I will do what I can to discover the troublemakers and have them suitably reprimanded.”

There’s a soft scoff from Kimball that makes him stop short, mustache bristling ever so slightly. “Is there something you would like to interject, General Kimball?”

“No, no, please continue, Doyle. Tell us all about this wonderful little slap on the wrist you have planned for your men.” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her chair. “As if you would have bothered doing anything about the sabotaging of New Republic equipment if it hadn’t injured someone you give a damn about.”

Eyes narrowing, Doyle leans forward, hands falling to rest on the table. “Your hypocrisy knows no bounds, madam! You think I don’t know that it’s your rebels hoarding supplies?”

Kimball’s out of her chair in an instant. “They wouldn’t have to if your people would distribute things fairly to begin with!”

“Oh, that is just rich--”

“Wait, wait.” Wash holds up his hands and then looks between the pair of them incredulously. “How long has this been going on? And how long have you known?”

Doyle seems to falter ever so slightly. “Known about what, Agent Washington?”

“All of it. The sabotage, the hoarding?” 

Suddenly, neither of them can look at him or each other and that’s more than enough of an answer. Wash grits his teeth and sucks in a steadying breath through his nose. There’s a very, very strong urge to just start screaming at both of them, but that’s not going to fix anything. 

“So… what you’re telling me is that you’ve both known about these problems for some time and you haven’t said anything or done anything to stop them?”

More silence. Well, that’s just fucking perfect. 

Wash slumps back in his seat and rubs at his temple, trying to fight down the anger that’s slowly rising to a boil. It’s no wonder things aren’t getting any better. How has this truce even lasted this long?

Apparently Wash isn’t the only one wondering that. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” Epsilon’s voice is a little screechy as he shakes his holographic head. “The war’s over, you’re supposed to be done with this crap.”

There’s a rough, bark of a laugh from Kimball. “You expect us to just forget everything that they’ve done? The hell he’s put my people through?”

“Uh, yes?” Grif meets her indignant stare with one of his own. “You’re not fighting them anymore. Get over it.”

Doyle clears his throat. “Captain, it’s not that simple to just forgive all that these rebels have done. They’ve killed countless--”

“Wash tried to kill us,” Tucker says extremely casually. Wash can’t stop himself from turning to stare, but he doesn’t interrupt. “We were pretty fucking sure he killed Donut for a while.”

“I got better!”

“The point is, we got over it. And I get that you guys have been doing this for ages, but shit’s never gonna get any better if you don’t even try to stop being dicks to each other. Plus, with the way you two act, it’s no fucking wonder the rest of your guys think screwing the other side over is still okay. So just grow the fuck up a little, Jesus,” Tucker finishes eloquently, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Tucker’s right.” That seems to catch half the room by surprise, even Tucker, who jolts in his seat a little as Carolina steps forward, moving up to the table. “I know that both of you have given a lot for this war and lost people you’ve cared about, but the more you hold onto that, the worse things are going to get. If things keep going the way they are, this truce isn’t going to last long enough to deal with the real enemy. Chorus can’t be divided anymore. We need to find a way to start putting it back together.”

For a long moment, Doyle and Kimball are quiet, then they very slowly meet each other’s eyes. “Perhaps,” he starts haltingly, “it is time for a more permanent agreement. I would be willing to negotiate a peace treaty.”

Kimball gives him a long hard look, then her eyes flick to Carolina, and then, for some reason her assistant. She lets out a breath as her gaze drifts back to Doyle. “I suppose it’s about time we at least gave it a try. Where do we start?”

It’s a long conversation, and Wash is certain that it’s just the first of many. They’re all yawning by the time they finally leave the room. He tells Tucker to go ahead without him as he hangs back, catching Donut on his way out. 

“Oh hey, Wash.” Donut manages a sleepy smile even as he rubs at his eyes. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to ask… did you get to see Sarge?” He falls into step at Donut’s side, the rest of the Reds and Blues a few feet ahead of them. “That’s why you were late, right?”

Pressing a hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn, Donut nods. “Yeah, I was sitting with him for a while. He’s still out though. Dr. Grey thinks he should wake up soon. She’s taking such good care of him, I’m sure he’ll be on his feet soon. Foot.”

Donut’s smile falters ever so slightly and there’s a painful twinge in Wash’s chest. His hand half rises, hovering awkwardly between them for a moment before he lets it land on Donut’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. He… he got hurt trying to help me. I tried to tell him to go, but--”

“Wash, don’t you start.” There’s a surprising intensity to Donut’s voice. He reaches up and covers Wash’s hand with his own, giving a gentle squeeze. “He wasn’t going to leave you, and I don’t want to hear you say that he should have, okay?”

They’ve both stopped walking just outside the building. The sun must’ve set while they were in the meeting, the last traces of light lingering on the horizon. It’s quiet, the silence making the words clamoring around Wash’s head even louder. If he had been faster. If he had pushed Sarge out of the way. If if if…

Swallowing them down, Wash forces himself to nod. He can’t hold Donut’s gaze. “Do you want to go see him again?” he manages to ask.

“Sure! I bet if we ask really nice Dr. Grey will let us sit with him for a while. C’mon!” And Donut pulls Wash’s hand from his shoulder, holding tight to it as he drags him along toward the infirmary. 

Dr. Grey does let them in after getting both of them to promise to keep their voices down. There’s not much to do there honestly. Sarge looks strangely small out of his armor and hooked up to several machines. It doesn’t seem right somehow. He looks older, almost fragile, and Wash knows the man is anything but. He lets Donut tug him over to take the chairs next to his bed. 

At some point, Donut produces a bottle of nail polish and Grey joins them with a cup of tea for each of them. Wash carefully looks away from her when she gently adjusts Sarge’s pillows and softly brushes strands of gray hair back from his face. She chats about this and that and between her and Donut the conversation stays light and casual. Only when all three of them are fading does she shoo them away with a promise to let them know as soon as Sarge comes to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last chapter was kind of a doozy, and I just want to say a big thank you to everyone who's stuck around to this point! I'm going to try to respond to comments more here, because they really do mean so much! We've got a little break in the action here, but I feel like that's fair after last chapter. Anyway, I hope you guys like this one!


	15. Remember the Footsteps, Remember the Words Said

Sarge wakes up two days later.

Wash is so busy going between training and meetings with the generals that he nearly misses it when a message from Grey pops up on his datapad. The peace treaty is a work in progress, but at least progress is being made, which is a big step forward from all the nothing that was happening there before. Negotiations are a very slow and tedious process, but at least both the generals seem willing to actually work at it.

Maybe one day they’ll be able to have a civil conversation without Wash and Carolina standing on the sidelines. Probably not anytime soon, but he can hope.

He and Carolina get the message at the same time and it takes quite a lot of self control not to just leave the war room to run straight to the infirmary. Instead, Wash glances around the room awkwardly for a moment and then at Carolina, who’s clearly reading the message over and over again. And then Wash wants to smack himself for not seeing it.

“Do you want to go see him?” he asks softly. If either of them is leaving, it should be her first. After all, she’s on Sarge’s team.

The generals are busy fussing over a map with their assistants and don’t seem to notice their distraction. Carolina glances between him and the message, mouth pressed to a thin line. “It can wait until the meeting ends,” she says, voice carefully even. “Besides, the other sim troopers will probably want to see him first.”

And well, Wash can’t argue with that. It would probably be pretty awkward to rush over and burst in on that. Or it would be like any other time he’s walked in on the Reds yelling at each other. But maybe with Simmons crying. So it’s probably better that they wait a little while.

Still, Wash can’t stop himself from checking the time, his eyes flicking to the door every few minutes. Carolina seems a little agitated herself, staring off again and again the way she does when she’s talking with Epsilon in her head, fingers drumming on her arm, the table, her datapad, anything within reach. Eventually the generals decide that they’ve gotten as far as they probably can today, meaning they both need a twenty minute break to go scream or cry.

When they’re excused, Wash and Carolina leave the room at the fastest pace that’s still polite. Once they’re down the hallway and heading toward the exit of the building, he picks up the pace a little. Carolina matches him and walks that much faster, shooting him the tiniest smirk over her shoulder, one eyebrow rising ever so slightly.

And that’s a challenge if he ever saw one.

He’s jogging by the time they’re out of the building, trying to swerve in front of her, but Carolina ducks around him, jabbing him in the side with her elbow. They’re both flat out sprinting by the time they reach the infirmary, shoving and sticking out legs to try to trip the other up. Skidding to a stop outside the door, Wash tries to catch his breath as he flashes her a little grin. “I’m pretty sure I won that one.”

“Oh you think so, huh?” There’s still a grin on her face, her eyes bright. “If you hadn’t tripped me back there--”

“You were the one that started shoving!” Realizing he’s almost shouting, Wash glances awkwardly at the door and then remembers just why they’re there. Right. He clears his throat a little awkwardly. “Do you want to go in first? I can come back later.”

Carolina hesitates, eyes flicking toward the door. “We should probably ask Grey if it’s alright for him to have more visitors.”

“Right, that’s a good idea.” Wash has his datapad out and is halfway to typing out a message to Emily when the door flies open and Tucker reaches out and grabs both of them.

“Just get the fuck in here, you losers.”

Wash goes along with the pull, and is a little surprised to find Carolina does the same. Tucker tugs them along to the already crowded area around Sarge’s bed. Simmons and Donut sit on one side, the latter chatting enthusiastically as Simmons works on something on a datapad. Caboose has claimed a seat on the other side next to Lopez of all people. The brown hulking suit of armor looks a little out of place and there’s not a word coming out of him, but the robot seems to have a rather firm grip on one of Sarge’s wrists.

Sarge looks rather tired, but he’s propped up against the pillows and apparently alert enough to respond to Donut now and then. There’s something that might be a smile on his face when he looks up as Tucker pulls Wash and Carolina to the foot of his bed. “Well, looks like the gang’s all here.”

“How are you feeling, Sarge? I’m sorry we couldn’t come sooner.”

“Eh, I’m alright. It’ll take a lot more’n an exploding jeep to put me down,” he says, brushing off Wash’s concern. “Emmy’s been putting me back together. Should be good as new in no time.”

Wash manages a smile. “That’s good.” And then he can’t stop one eyebrow rising. “Emmy?”

For some reason, that makes Tucker groan as he elbows Wash. “Don’t get him started again, we just got him to shut up about Dr. Grey. And I mean nice work getting some, Sarge,” he says, offering a hand for a fist bump. “But I don’t wanna hear all the dirty details.”

With a low chuckle, Sarge knocks his knuckles against Tucker’s. “Aw, you’re just jealous, son.”

Wash expects a scoff or some remark about how Sarge wishes because Tucker’s clearly the one everyone should be jealous of in that particular matter. But Tucker tips his head to one side like he’s thinking about it and shrugs. Huh. Now what the hell does that mean?

“Where’s Grif?” The question makes Wash turn to blink at Carolina. It’s then that he realizes she’s right. There’s no sign of Grif, his usual place at Simmons’ side instead taken by Donut. And somehow that just feels wrong.

Simmons shifts uncomfortably in his seat, eyes fixed on the floor as he pulls off his glasses and cleans them methodically. “Grif’s not feeling well. He got pretty tanked last night, so he said he’d come by later.”

Well, that definitely sounds like a lie. Wash glances at Tucker, who’s got one eyebrow raised suspiciously, but neither of them question it. There’s a huff from Sarge.

“Just like Grif, laying down on the job, as usual,” he says evenly, but for some reason, he’s not looking at any of them.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, I’m sure Grif’ll be down in no time. We can still have a little Red Team time without him.” Donut lightly pats Sarge’s elbow and then moves to sit on the edge of the bed, motioning for Carolina to take his seat instead. She sits gingerly, looking a little awkward until she catches Sarge’s eye and reaches out to squeeze his hand.   

And very suddenly, Wash feels like an outsider. He lightly nudges Tucker, nodding meaningfully toward the door and then Caboose when he gets his attention. Getting the idea, Tucker edges past Lopez to tap at Caboose’s shoulder. “We’re gonna go grab some food. We’ll sneak you some of the good shit out of the dining hall.”

“We will make sure to get everything red flavored,” Caboose adds, with a note of almost fierce sincerity as he grips Sarge’s shoulder.

There’s a slight hint of a smile, and a fondness in the old man’s eyes as he pats Caboose’s hand. “Good man. Now get outta here, you dirty Blues. We’ve got battle plans to make.”

Wash offers a salute, which Sarge returns and then leads the way out of the infirmary. He waits until the door’s shut behind them to turn to Tucker. “So, does he really seem alright to you?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Tucker shrugs. “He’s still Sarge, dude, even if there was something bothering him, there’s no way in hell he’d tell us about it, can’t show any weakness around a Blue. Or y’know, just in general. But I think he’s alright.”

“The sergeant will be just fine if we make him a peg leg. Now he can be a real pirate captain,” Caboose chimes in. He sucks in a little gasp, his eyes lighting up. “I wonder if we could make him a leg that is also a gun.”

Wash isn’t sure what to do with that, so he just nods as Caboose pulls out his datapad and starts doodling gun legs. “You know, I bet Sarge would like that a lot. Maybe you can help Simmons make one later.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Tucker says, snorting, but he’s still smiling at the corners of his eyes. His elbow lightly digs into Wash’s side after a few moments, when they’re nearing the dining hall. “You didn’t really talk to him much.”

And Wash has to look straight ahead of him as he shrugs. “It… wasn’t the right time. Later. His team should be there for him now.”

That definitely doesn’t make Tucker happy, the corner of his mouth curling, but he just lets out a breath and doesn’t push it. They should both talk to Sarge. But not now. Red and Blue don’t matter except where they do. All of them are something more than a team, a touch beyond friends, but there’s still a line there. The same line he knows the Reds would run up against if Tucker or Caboose was hurt. Their two halves make a whole, but there’s still places where they don’t quite fit together perfectly.

Which just makes it all the stranger that Grif wasn’t there. Wash is pretty sure Tucker’s of the same opinion judging by the way he mirrors Wash, freezing when they step into the dining hall, eyes narrowing. Because Grif looks like he’s feeling just fine where he’s standing arguing with the Fed behind the counter.

“You call this a serving size? What the fuck’s your rank? I’ll have you reported for starving a superior!” The shouts are attracting more than a few stares, but Grif doesn’t seem to notice.

Lips pressing to a thin line, Wash glances sideways at Tucker, who meets his eyes automatically and nods. They walk in sync, crossing the dining hall to stand directly behind Grif. There’s another brief moment of eye contact and Tucker cocks an eyebrow at him. That’s all the invitation Wash needs.

“Captain Grif, I see you’re feeling better,” he says, a little too loud, a touch of his drill sergeant voice creeping in. Not that Wash will ever admit to calling it that. Because then Tucker wins.

Grif goes completely still, one hand still pointing an accusing finger at the Fed behind the counter. Slowly, he turns, face perfectly blank as he looks between the two of them. There’s a moment where it looks like he might run, but then his eyes narrow ever so slightly and his chin juts out defiantly. “Yeah? And what’s it to you two assholes?”

“How long have you been in here stuffing your face?” Tucker crosses his arms over his chest, glancing at the tray that Grif’s got loaded up on the counter.

“I don’t see how that’s important.” Wash has learned with time that that usually means Grif’s been there for at least an hour or longer.

Tucker lets out a disgusted huff. “You’re such a dick. Why aren’t you going to see Sarge?”

“That’s none of your goddamn business. What’s that stupid old man ever done for me, huh?” Grif turns away from them, not even bothering to grab his tray as he heads for the door. “Y’know what? I don’t need this shit!”

For a second, Wash hesitates. Because this feels like one of those Red Team things he just doesn’t understand. Or even more than that, a Grif and Sarge thing. Wash has never understood that particular relationship. It sure as hell seems like they hate each other. But he remembers the way they had worked together in Valhalla, and in the snow. How with Simmons they seemed to move as one, together, always.

So for Grif to not be there, not in his usual place, something must be deeply wrong. Especially if he’s not there because he doesn’t want to be.

Wash almost lets him go, but Tucker has other plans, cursing under his breath as he rushes to catch up. And, like he always seems to, Wash follows after him.

Grif isn’t particularly hard to catch up to. Only a hallway away from the dining hall, Tucker picks up the pace, darting around Grif to cut him off. Cursing he turns as if to go back the other way, but Wash casually moves to stand in the middle of his escape route, boxing him in. With a huff, Grif turns back toward Tucker. “I’ll bowl you the fuck over, dude. I can do it too."

And he probably could, for all that he complains about training, Grif’s got a decent amount of muscle hidden beneath his gut, but Wash can almost see the fight leaving Grif’s shoulders. It strikes him then that Grif looks exhausted. Which is why Wash sighs and takes a slight step closer. “We’re not going to force you to go see him.”

Tucker seems a little taken aback, frowning at Wash. “We’re not?”

Shaking his head, Wash glances down at Grif as he moves to his side. “No, but… I know they all want you there, Grif.”

“So?” Grif asks, petulant and a little hostile, gaze fixed on the floor. “Who says I give a shit what they want? They sure as hell don’t care what I have to say about anything. Doesn’t matter what the fuck I do, they’re all so fucking excited to run off and get themselves killed for this planet.”

Grif’s furious words for Kimball echo through Wash’s head. How long has this been simmering beneath the surface? The surprise Wash finds on Tucker’s face is reassuring and it isn’t. At least he’s not the only one missing things, but that doesn’t stop the guilt from climbing up his throat.

“They care. I know they do.” And Wash forgets himself and reaches out, hand landing on Grif’s upper arm.

The result is instant. Grif goes still, frozen on the spot for a long moment before he slowly looks up at Wash with impossibly wide eyes, green and hazel staring into him. It takes a moment to click. Oh god. Wash knows that look. He jerks his hand away and steps back so suddenly, he almost stumbles.

It’s been so long. He hasn’t been thinking about it. And Wash has definitely been spending far too much time with Tucker and Donut. They’re safe. He can reach out there, because it’s already too late. And as much as he denies it, there’s a bone deep ache to touch, to hold on.

Grif is still just staring at him, eyes wide with shock. Well, there’s no taking it back now. So Wash pulls up the left sleeve of his sweater, it’s a little too big on him having once belonged to Caboose. He rolls it up past his elbow, revealing the orange handprint curling around his forearm. It’s probably not necessary, but it feels like the thing to do.

Slowly, Grif’s eyes flit down to it, his eyebrows creeping up toward his hairline. It seems to take days for him to uncross his arms and reach out, wide palm pressing to the mark. The sensation is strange, it’s warm, almost soothing. It doesn’t jolt and rush through him like the fire that surges from Tucker’s or the almost tickling little sparks from Donut’s. This moves slow, creeping over him and settling firmly like a blanket.

“You don’t have to go see him if you don’t want to,” Wash says slowly, eyes still fixed on Grif’s hand. “But I know he’d like to see you… just think about it.”

There’s a long pause and then a sigh before Grif nods stiffly, hand falling away from Wash’s arm. “I’ll get around to it, I guess. Maybe after I take another nap.”

He gives Wash another look, which Wash can’t make heads or tails of, before he walks away, not heading in the direction of the infirmary. Well, knowing Grif, he’ll get there at his own speed eventually.

“So, how long did you know about that one?”

Tucker’s voice catches him a little off guard. He’s standing at Wash’s side now, looking at him with only the slightest hint of judgement on his face. Instantly self conscious, Wash tugs his sleeve back down and then tucks his arms around his middle. “A while. It… it was right after the ship crashed.”

He sort of expects the disappointed sigh and the eye roll, but it ends there. And then Tucker just grabs at his wrist, pulling him back toward the cafeteria. “C’mon, I’m still fucking starving. They’re probably replaced all the good shit Grif took by now anyway.”

Nodding, Wash follows along behind him and tries not to think about the Reds. They’ll put themselves back together. They always do.

* * *

Grif’s still not there when Wash stops by later and finds the other Reds filing out of the infirmary. He wants to ask, but the look on Simmons’ face stops the words dead in his throat. Wash gives him and Donut little nods as they walk past before moving to catch Carolina before she heads after them. “How’s he holding up?”

She glances back toward the infirmary, something like a smile on her face as she gives a one shoulder shrug. “I think he’ll be alright. He’s already making mission plans and trying to convince Grey to let him up.”

Wash’s brow furrows a little. He knows Sarge is strong willed and never one to be kept down, but… “He really doesn’t seem bothered by it?”

“I didn’t say that. But he’s certainly not saying anything if he is.” Carolina’s expression falls a little as she sighs. “I don’t know, he might be putting on a brave face, but I think he’s at least come to terms with the situation to some extent. It’s hard for me to get a read on him.”

Nodding understandingly, Wash glances toward the door. The Reds and Blues are shockingly like the Freelancers that way. When there’s something little going wrong, they’ll fuss and whine non stop. But when it’s something more serious, they just soldier on.

Carolina lightly nudges at his shoulder. “You should go talk to him.”

Wash blinks at her, eyebrows rising. She just rolls her eyes and lightly shoves him toward the door. “Just go, Wash.”

Her tone is light, but with a slight edge that means there’s no point in arguing. Letting out a breath, Wash squares his shoulders and heads into the infirmary. His feet come to an automatic stop just a foot inside the door. Sarge is sitting up in bed, one chair still occupied by Lopez, the robot’s chest piece open. Dr. Grey is seated at the end of Sarge’s bed, nodding as he points out something inside Lopez. His other hand is still on the bed, Grey’s covering it.

He should probably just go. But Dr. Grey is already turning to look at the door. She smiles at him, the kind of smile he can’t just run away from, and beckons him closer. With an internal sigh, Wash draws closer, hands shoved into the pockets of his old sweatpants, he’s pretty sure they were Carolina’s at one point. They’re the right color at least.

Emily rises and Sarge’s hand falls away from her as she leaves the bed behind, crossing the room to greet him. “Good afternoon, Wash. Are you here for a visit? Technically visiting hours ended a few minutes ago, but I don’t think Sarge would mind if you sat with him a little while longer.”

“I… I don’t mean to intrude,” Wash says, rubbing at the back of his neck, painfully aware of how quiet the infirmary is now that he’s really paying attention to that. There’s no one else there apart from a few occupied beds toward the other end of the room, though the patients there look to mostly be asleep.

She shakes her head and waves a hand dismissively. “Oh don’t worry about that. Cornelius was just showing me the latest modifications he’s made to Lopez. We can do that any time.”

“Well, if… Cornelius?” Wash blinks, eyebrows rising. It occurs to him then that Sarge can’t possibly be the man’s first name. Why has he never questioned that before? Maybe because it just seems to fit him so well? Sarge having a normal name is more than a little strange. Then again, it’s not like Wash has a whole lot of room to talk there.

Dr. Grey just lets out a little laugh as she pats his arm and then gives him a gentle push toward the bed. “Go on now.”

Wash’s steps only stutter a little as he makes his way over to Sarge’s bed, where the man is still up to his elbows in Lopez’s chest, intently working on something inside. He doesn’t so much as glance up before pointing at the tool box at the end of the bed. “Hand me those pliers, Wash. Got a few crossed wires in here that need fixing.”

“These?” Wash hands them over and then, very hesitantly, takes one of the seats next to the bed.

Nodding, Sarge grabs the pliers and sets to work on whatever it is he’s doing to Lopez. Wash almost wants to ask if he’s fixing the speech unit, but somehow that seems unlikely. He shifts a little in his seat. “Uh… if you’re busy I can come back later.”

“Nonsense, grab that socket wrench and get in here, son.” Sarge gestures at the tool box again and shifts over a little, clearly leaving room for Wash.

It shouldn’t be happening this way. Sarge should be furious with him. Because it’s Wash’s fault he’s here. The Feds had messed with the jeep, but if he had moved faster, been more aware of things, listened to Tucker when he had talked about the car feeling strange… He should be the one lying here with half a leg gone. Hell, if Sarge hadn’t pushed him forward, he might have lost far more than that.

Swallowing down the guilt, he grabs the wrench and shifts a little closer, eyeing the gears and circuitry in Lopez’s chest curiously. “What do you need me to do?”

Sarge directs him, telling him to adjust this and tighten that, going on about the latest changes and enhancements he’s made. Wash isn’t exactly a robotics expert, but he understands some things here and there and is able to offer at least a steady pair of hands to fine tune the delicate equipment. He’s not exactly sure what they’re doing, but Sarge seems happy enough.

It’s still not quite comfortable.

Wash keeps looking at Sarge from the corner of his eye. The other shoe has to drop and soon. How can he just sit there like nothing happened? Like nothing’s changed? Like Wash isn’t the reason he’s in this goddamn bed?

Apparently, he’s not subtle. After about five minutes, Sarge sets down his pliers and looks at Wash, brow furrowing. “Son, if you’ve got something to say, let’s hear it.”

“I…” Wash cuts himself off and shakes his head. He shifts, hands falling into his lap, twisting around the wrench. Guilt is like a rock in his stomach, heavy, immobile, making him sick. “It’s my fault.”

He chokes the words out, almost wincing at the sound, the first hint of the dam starting to burst. “You pushed me out of the way--Tucker said there was something wrong with the jeep. I should’ve…”

It’s his fault, he did this. All he does is hurt and break and hurt and kill and--

“I’m sorry,” Wash gasps out, voice breaking, caught on the lump in his throat. His knuckles are white where he clutches the wrench and he can’t look at Sarge so he stares at his shaking hands. There’s a burning in his eyes and his face is on fire even though his insides have gone cold.

Next to him, there’s a heavy sigh, and then Sarge has an arm hooked around his neck as he yanks Wash to his chest. It’s not quite a hug, the position a little too awkward and stiff for that, but he can feel Sarge’s heavy exhale against the top of his head. “Now that’s a load of horse shit if I ever heard one.”

Wash nearly protests, but Sarge keeps on going. “What I did was my decision, not yours or anyone else’s. I protect me and mine. And don’t you sit there and tell me you wouldn’t’ve done the same if it’d been the other way ‘round. Or if it’d been one of your Blues.”

And he’s not wrong. But… but it’s not the same. Because Wash isn’t--he doesn’t deserve that. That sacrifice, that blind loyalty and care.

But Sarge doesn’t stop there. “I heard what you did at the crash site. And, frankly, it’s a little insulting you think we wouldn’t do the same when you’re the one on the line. Shit, figure we’d’ve earned a little more respect outta you by now.”

Eyes wide, Wash tries to shift to look at him, but he can’t quite get there. “That’s not--of course I respect you--”

“Then respect what I did, son. Hate to break it to you, Wash, but you don’t get to decide how I feel or who I blame, but I sure as shit ain’t gonna hold this over you. Understand?”

The weight doesn’t vanish, but somehow, it lessens. Swallowing with a click, Wash manages a nod, his eyes still burning. There’s still guilt, still the fact that he doesn’t deserve this. “But… your leg, I-I’m not worth--”

“Gonna stop you right there.” There’s a sharpness to Sarge’s voice that makes him shut his mouth with a snap. “I’ve got two of those for a reason. And I can build a new one easy. We’ve only got one of you.”

Sarge lets out another breath and his hand finds Wash’s shoulder, settling into place over the bright red mark hidden under his shirt. Taking a shuddering breath, Wash turns slightly pressing his face into the crook of Sarge’s neck as the warm, steady comfort creeps over him inch by inch.

“I know they made you think different,” Sarge says, voice softer now. “All those things they put in your head, the things they fed you for years, made you think you were less. Don’t hold that against you, think we’ve all got some of that. So… for whatever it’s worth, this ain’t your fault. But even if it were, that’d be alright.”

“What about you?” Wash’s voice comes out softer than he meants it. “Are you… are you really alright?”

“Eh. Can’t say. I will be though. Now, what’s say you and me finish this tune up?”

Wash doesn’t remember much of his father. He has more of the director’s memories on the subject than his own. Memories of a man who was a brash and arrogant failure, or promising to be nothing like him and ending up there all the same. His own recollections are more distant, of raised voices behind closed doors and bags packed waiting by the front step.

He doesn’t really know what having one is supposed to feel like, but… he thinks this might be something like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this chapter went up a little later than usual this week. It's a little shorter than the last few have been, sorry about that too! This is what I get for not planning out chapter breaks ahead of time, whoops. Hope you like it!


	16. Take a Deep Breath In the Mirror

With his shoulder still healing, it’s another week before Emily clears Wash to start training again. Carolina’s been handling things while his shoulder healed. Given, well… everything, he’s half tempted to let her keep going. But that’s not fair to anyone. 

From what he’s heard both armies have been given a severe talking to under Carolina’s supervision, so he trusts that the generals actually gave a decent dressing down of their own forces this time around. Still, his jaw is already clenched as he strides into the training room. 

Wash doesn’t know what to expect, thought he’s half ready to break up another fight. So, he’s a little baffled when he finds the room quiet in a respectfully uncomfortable way. And it’s not just the Feds and rebels that have beaten him there. 

“Oh hey, Wash!” Donut waves from his spot seated on the mats. All the equipment has been pushed to the sides of the room leaving a wide open space where all the cadets sit in a large circle. Even without their armor, Wash has learned the faces well enough to notice that they’re sitting Fed, rebel, Fed, rebel, apart from the two spots taken up by Donut and Caboose. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Wash isn’t quite serious, but it definitely seems like he’s intruding on something here. Though he can’t begin to guess what. 

“Of course not, anyone can join the friendship circle. Come on, pull up some mat, Wash,” Donut says, shifting over and patting the space next to him. 

Friendship circle? Wash blinks, glancing around at the assembled soldiers. A few look about as confused as he feels. Still, there’s no arguing with that bright eyed grin, so he wanders over and awkwardly sits next to Donut. “What exactly are we doing here?”

“I know you’re supposed to be training, but I thought that it would be nice to start with some team building and trust exercises. That way everyone can really get in touch with each other before the sweat starts flowing.”

Wash can’t stop a dubious eyebrow from rising. More than a few cadets shoot him pleading looks, quite clearly wanting nothing to do with the idea. The corner of his mouth turns up as he looks back at Donut. “You know what, I think that’s just what we need. Why don’t you lead us, Private Donut?”

Grinning, Donut claps his hands together and turns to the rest of the circle. “Alrighty! I hope everyone’s ready for some quality bonding time!”  

It’s not quite as much of a trainwreck as Wash expects, but that’s a near thing. Donut starts with going around the circle and having everyone say their name and a fun fact, which is fine until Private Misra’s fact is that he likes tp-ing the Fed’s quarters and the next three cadets have to escalate from there. Caboose of all people manages to calm things down by sweeping all four of them into a massive hug. 

Things get back on track until it comes back around the circle and Wash finds everyone looking at him expectantly. He glances at Donut, hoping for an escape route. No such luck, Donut’s just looking at him like the rest of the circle. So Wash sighs. “I’m Agent Washington, and I didn’t really think of a fun fact but--”

“But that’s not your name.” Karimi’s blunt interjection makes him stop short.

Wash just blinks at her. There’s an awkward cough from Andersmith. “She does have a point, sir. The rest of us did say our names, not our ranks.”

“Agent isn’t even a rank,” says Bitters. He frowns at Wash, crossing his arms. “Why are you in charge if you don’t even outrank us?”

“He’s in charge because the generals trust him.” Sinclair sounds very sure of herself, though she manages to still say it politely. “And because he has experience.”

At least someone’s on his side. The fact that it’s Sinclair is… unexpected, but Wash finds himself almost feeling better as he meets her eyes. 

But then she continues. “Although… the point of the exercise is trust, so not telling us your name…”

They’re all looking at him again. Even Donut and Caboose, who mostly just looks confused. Wash shifts, skin prickling with discomfort. God, why did he agree to this? 

He takes a breath and squares his shoulders as he rises from the mats. “For all that it matters, that is my name. It’s good enough for the generals, so I would hope that it’s good enough for all of you. Let’s move onto another exercise. Donut?”

Maybe it’s because Donut’s been sitting close enough to feel the discomfort radiating off him, or because he’s just that excited for whatever he’s got next, but he leaps up and brings his hands together again. “Alright everyone, pair up with one of the people next to you. It’s time for trust falls!”

Oh god. Wash blanches, immediately envisioning everything going down in flames. “Uh, maybe that’s not--”

But Donut’s already moving, gently nudging pairs of Feds and rebels far enough away from each other that they all have room to practice catching each other. Yeah, there’s no way in hell this is going to end well. Wash is at least able to convince Donut it’s better for the pair of them to wander around and supervise rather than participate. Most of the cadets that are supposed to be falling are doing their best to lean as far back as possible. 

Wexler’s nearly doing a back bend awkwardly hovering, not quite ready to fall into Park’s willing, but shaky arms. On the other side of the room, Andersmith’s boisterous voice carries as he tries to assure Tobin his his strength and fortitude or something. And Karimi looks about ready to scream at an apprehensive looking Ortega. 

“Just fucking do it, I’ve carried a lot heavier than you, loser,” she snaps, holding out her arms expectantly. 

“Yeah, I don’t know about that. What about your shoulder?”  Ortega looks at her over his shoulder. 

As Wash approaches, Ortega snaps to attention and suddenly looks a little green. That’s probably fair. Wash hasn’t spent much time around any of the Feds since the incident in the infirmary. Part of that is due to the fact that there’s still a slight urge to slam them into walls like he had done with Ortega, but the rest is the guilt that comes along after the surge of anger. 

“How is it going over here, privates?” he asks, carefully casual, not looking directly at Ortega. 

“It’s not. He won’t let me even try to catch him.” Karimi crosses her arms and lets out a huff of irritation. 

Ortega shifts a little on the spot. “Well, sir, it’s just… her arm--”

“My arm’s fucking fine.” The response is immediate, as is the sigh from Ortega that follows. Wash glances between them for a moment, weighing his options. 

“Dr. Grey has cleared you for training, Private Karimi?” he asks. 

“Yeah, of course she did. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, duh. Uh, sir.” The last part is tacked on almost sheepishly, as it usually is. 

Wash inhales through his nose and nods. “Alright, then you and I will demonstrate for Ortega that this is perfectly safe.”

Both of them turn to him with eyes the size of hubcaps. He’s not sure if that’s more to do with his reputation as the ‘paranoid ex special ops guy’ or the fact that Karimi is almost a foot and a half shorter than him. But he just offers them a faint smile and a raised eyebrow. “Is that alright, with both of you?”

Karimi grins and rolls up the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “Let’s fucking do it, sir.” 

Ortega looks even more petrified now, but he steps out of the way as Karimi holds out her arms again. This part, Wash isn’t honestly ready for, but he’s got to put his money where his mouth is. Because, the thing is, trusting people is still something he needs to work on. He trusts the Reds and Blues, and Carolina of course, but they’re the only ones to make that list in a very long time. 

But, he’s also seen the amount of weight Karimi puts on her training equipment and there’s more than a slight hint of muscle when she rolls up her sleeves. And it’s not like she has to take all of his weight, just enough to steady him. 

At least they’re practicing on the mats, just in case. 

Wash gives her a nod and then turns, crossing his arms over his chest. Taking a breath, he lets himself fall. 

The thing about being caught by someone Karimi’s height is that there’s still a shockingly long time for the falling part. But Wash doesn’t catch himself. 

And he doesn’t have to. 

Karimi’s hands come up to brace him, stopping his descent still several feet above the floor. There’s a soft grunt of effort, but he quickly gets back to his feet and turns to offer her a small smile. “Excellent work, private. Now your turn.”

She nods and turns, falling without hesitation and Wash catches her with ease. He steadies her and then looks to Ortega. “And now you, Ortega.”

“Sir?” Ortega blinks at him, eyebrows rising uncertainly. 

“Now you catch me,” Wash says firmly. 

Ortega’s mouth falls open for a moment before he forces it shut again. “But, sir--”

“No buts, Ortega. I trust you to do this.” He pauses, tone gentling slightly. “I know you wouldn’t intentionally hurt me or anyone else here.”

After a long moment, Ortega nods, the very beginnings of a smile on his face, some of the nerves finally fading away. 

The rest of the exercise goes fairly well apart from a few dropped cadets here and there. Wash honestly isn’t sure if it’s helping, but when Donut and Caboose take their leave shortly after, the Feds and rebels are less reluctant than usual to pair up for hand to hand practice. It feels like it might be a step forward. 

* * *

All things considered, the peace treaty business is actually going surprisingly well. Although, given Wash’s usual less than optimistic expectations, he had half expected the talks to result in at least one of the generals being set on fire and then thrown out a window. He should probably talk to Grey about his vivid, horrifying daydreams at some point. 

Looking over the final draft of the treaty, Wash still doesn’t quite believe it’s actually happening. “And you both agree to everything here? Really?”

The generals exchange a look that’s far less barbed than the ones from a few weeks ago, though Wash still wouldn’t exactly call it friendly. Doyle nods. “Yes, I believe that the terms we’ve decided on are agreeable… for the most part. But we both know that sacrifices must be made for the sake of our people.” 

“It isn’t perfect,” Kimball says slowly. “But I think it’s enough. Once this business with Charon and the pirates is taken care of, some adjustments may be needed, but for now, I’m willing to sign.”

“And we will be one united Chorus once again,” Doyle says, sighing. “I must admit, I was fairly sure I wouldn’t live to see that. It almost feels like cause to celebrate.”

Wash tips his head to one side, thinking. “You could though. It might not be a bad idea, and it might make the troops more enthusiastic about the treaty.”

Because there’s still mixed feelings about that. No one’s saying it, but Wash can see it written on face after face. As much as he wants the conflict to be over and done with, he knows it’s not that simple. A peace treaty won’t clean the blood that’s been spilled, won’t give children back their childhoods. 

He glances over at Carolina as he passes the treaty her way. She’s got a thoughtful expression on her face. “It could frame things in a better way. And missions have been going well lately, giving everyone a day off to celebrate something could be good for morale.”

That gets Kimball’s attention at least, though she still looks skeptical. “We would still need guards stationed around the city. But… I suppose it’s not the worst idea. The troops have all been working hard on missions, I can’t say they don’t deserve a break.” 

She pauses, rubbing at her chin, there’s a small scar there Wash has never noticed before. It looks new. Very slowly, Kimball turns to look at Doyle, mouth twitching slightly before she speaks. “What do you think?”

There’s a strain to her voice, but her face stays even. Almost like she’s been practicing. Out of the corner of his eye, Wash notices a faint smile curling on Carolina’s lips, though her eyes are still moving over the treaty. 

The surprise on Doyle’s face is so obvious and open, Wash has to casually press a hand to his mouth to avoid snickering. It takes the general a moment to compose himself as he slowly nods. “It could be rather nice. As you said, we would have to take some precautions, but, well… oh, I don’t see why not.”

Wash isn’t much of a party person, he never has been. So maybe that’s why he’s a little surprised by how complicated the whole thing is. It takes quite a bit of arguing and back and forth discussion before they even settle on a name for it. He’s not quite sure why it needs a name, but apparently somewhere in the talks, the little celebration he had imagined has turned into a new national holiday for Chorus. 

Why they couldn’t just take a day to quietly mind their own business and eat cake, he’s not sure, but he’s pretty sure it’s better not to ask questions. Especially not after they start calling in others to consult and Donut shows up with his party planning binders. 

Unity Day is what they end up calling it. And, after almost tearful protests from Donut, they decide to set it a month away to give them time to get things in order. Although apparently that’s still not nearly enough time to plan things properly, as Donut informs him as they leave the room together. 

“Honestly, I’ve taken more time to plan birthday parties. How do they expect this to all come together so fast? They really need to work on their time management skills,” he says, shaking his head disdainfully. 

Wash can’t quite stop his eyebrows rising a little. “Is it really going to take that long? It doesn’t seem like there should be that much to do.”

Donut gives him a pitying look as he reaches up to pat Wash’s arm. “Oh Wash, you naive, beautiful koala, bless your heart. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Koala?” Wash blinks. But Donut’s already got his binder open again as he clicks his tongue fretfully. 

“There’s the catering to sort out, and it’s going to take at least a week to even figure out how to decorate everything properly, and don’t even get me started on the event schedule.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

“No, Wash,  _ please _ , get me started.”

And Wash spends the next few hours with Donut going over all the very important particulars that need to be worked out for a proper party. Honestly, he doesn’t see the point in half of it, and the wine and cheese Donut breaks out don’t exactly help him focus, but one thing is made very, very clear. 

“You really care about this stuff, don’t you?” he says, and he can feel the faint smile on his face as he looks over at the table where Donut’s set out a few dozen different color pallets. 

“Of course I do. It’s all very important, Wash.” Donut gives him a look that’s almost a little reproachful. “I know the rest of you think that this stuff is all just silly and pointless but--”

“No, no that’s not what I meant,” Wash says quickly, holding up his hands. He rubs at the back of his neck a little sheepishly as he glances over all the work Donut’s already done. It’s… a lot actually. And more than half of it makes no sense to him at all. But that doesn’t mean it’s not important. “I meant… you really like this? And you’re really, really good at it. It’s… it’s kind of amazing actually.”

He looks up from color swatches and seating charts and finds Donut beaming at him, with a smile so bright it’s almost blinding. It’s that open, earnest look that he swears half the Reds and Blues have perfected, and Wash can’t hold it for long. Donut’s hand goes to his arm and gives a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Wash, that’s so sweet. I’ve just always loved this sort of stuff, you know? And it’s a great way to clear my head. I know it’s silly, but it can be a lot of fun.”

Wash’s brow furrows as he glances back at Donut, protest on his tongue. But Donut doesn’t look bothered, he doesn’t sound it either. How many times has he been told that? How many people have shot down his ideas without so much as a second thought? How often has he been told that he should be doing something else? Something more important?

He grabs the binder tugging it closer. “What about this list here? What are these things for?”

Donut lights up again as he scooches over to explain. Wash still doesn’t quite understand, but he doesn’t have to. It’s enough to see the brightness in Donut’s eyes and the dimples from his wide grin as he explains using words Wash has never heard to describe colors he can’t even imagine. Maybe he doesn’t quite get it, but after listening to Donut’s careful plans, he finds he’s actually starting to look forward to this Unity Day thing. 

* * *

There are lots of sounds Wash is used to waking up to. Screaming is most common, usually his own. Gunshots are probably a close second, then explosions, and then frantic alarms that instantly make his blood run cold. He can’t remember the last time he woke up to the sounds of power tools. 

It takes him a minute to even figure out what the hell is making the sounds. Armonia has started feeling safe, the nightmares are fewer and farther between. Not gone, but he doubts they ever will be. Still, he knows that there’s not much that could get to him there. So when the sounds of drilling and hammering make their way through the thin walls of his room, he just lies there for a moment. 

His brow furrows when voices start to join in. That definitely sounds like Caboose and Tucker. And he’s almost certain it sounds like they’re doing something they shouldn’t be. With a slight sigh, he turns to look at the datapad that’s mostly just a glorified clock on his bedside table. And of course his teammates are playing with power tools at four in the morning. Why wouldn’t they be?

Wash drags a hand over his face and forces himself out of bed. He doesn’t bother changing out of the borrowed sweats he’d slept in, because he can already tell the noises are just coming from the lounge. Fighting down a yawn, he wanders out of his room and into the lounge and comes to a dead stop. 

The lounge looks like a cross between a warzone and a construction site. There’s heavy wooden crates piled in one corner and cans of red paint stacked in a tower that looks ready to topple any second. It looks like the floor is more sawdust than carpet at this point, and in the middle of all the nonsense are Tucker and Caboose standing around… something. It’s about half built, whatever the half it is. Caboose is hammering together pieces of wood, and Tucker’s got a saw, taking apart one of the massive crates. 

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Wash has to almost scream to make himself heard. 

They both stop and turn to him, looking almost sheepish. Caboose recovers first, grinning widely. “Good morning, Wash! We’re making the sergeant a pirate ship!”

Wash just blinks at him and then at Tucker, who doesn’t deny it. Letting out a breath, Wash rubs a his temple, several dozen questions floating around his head. “Alright, I’m going to go with  _ why _ ?”

“To go with his peg leg! He can’t be a pirate colonel without a pirate ship, Wash. Everyone knows that,” Caboose says, rolling his eyes like it should be obvious. 

Again, Wash looks to Tucker, who shrugs. “I mean, he’s kinda got a point.”

He’s not sure why he had expected Tucker to be helpful. Wash sighs and leans against the doorframe. “And why did you have to do this at four in the morning?”

“It’s a surprise!” Caboose says, throwing up his arms. 

“Yeah, we didn’t want the Reds seeing us sneak this stuff up here. We weren’t gonna start building it till later, but we already had all the tools, so we figured, fuck it.”

Wash debates pointing out that with all the noise they’re making, there’s no way the Reds won’t notice this at some point. But they’re both looking at him with those big brown eyes and he can’t bring himself to rain on their parade. So he sighs, because there’s no way he’s getting back to sleep with this noise going on. “Do you need any help?”

The matching grins are more than worth losing a few hours of fitful sleep. 

They actually have boat blueprints that they’re doing their best to follow. Caboose has gotten a little… creative here and there, but it’s not as much of a mess as Wash had initially figured. He’s pretty sure whatever they end up with isn’t going to be seaworthy. He’ll be shocked if it even floats. But he’s fairly certain that’s not the point. 

Particularly when Caboose gets tired of building it after a few hours and insist they start painting what they have so far. Wash spends about five seconds trying to convince them to lay down some paper or tarps first, but he trails off when Tucker looks him dead in the eye and holds his gaze as he opens a can of paint, dips his hand in and drags a massive read smear down the wall. That settles that, apparently. 

There’s actually about half a boat to paint, and Wash doesn’t have anywhere to be until noon, mostly due to the cadets insisting that training early in the morning is cruel and unusual punishment. So he just rolls up his sleeves and grabs the brush Caboose offers him before his hulking teammate leaves to get painting snacks. 

He drops to one knee next to Tucker, dipping his brush carefully in the paint, wiping off the excess before starting. There’s a scoff next to him and Wash cocks an eyebrow at Tucker. “Can I help you?”

“You even paint like a nerd, dude.” Tucker shakes his head as he slathers the wood, sending drips of paint flying. A few catch Wash in the face, and he sighs. 

“And you’re making a mess. I’m just making sure most of the paint ends up on the boat.”

Tucker snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but it’s gonna take you forever that way. I’ve already done like twice as much.”

“You’ve also got paint in your eyebrows.”

“What? Shit, really?” Tucker drops his brush, splattering the floor and Wash’s knee. He pats at his eyebrows and scowls when his hands come away red. “Well fuck.”

Wash doesn’t mean to snicker, but in his attempts to feel for the small blotches that had been there before, Tucker somehow managed to rub the paint all over both brows. Tucker cocks a brow at him and it just looks so ridiculous, the bright, candy apple red making him look like some kind of cartoon. Pressing a hand to his mouth, Wash shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s just… that’s a good look for you actually.”

Tucker blinks at him and then smirks. He reaches for the paint again and Wash instantly recoils, but instead of reaching for him, Tucker casually paints himself a large, curling mustache and grins. “How about this? That do it for you, Wash?”

“Oh my god.” Clapping a hand over his mouth, Wash snorts and ducks his head. It’s the most ridiculous thing he’s seen in ages. He’s too old to be giggling at a painted on mustache, but his shoulders are shaking and he can’t stop himself. 

Trying to calm himself, he takes a breath and shakes his head, grabbing one of the paper towels he had insisted on before they started. “Tucker, stop, come here, let me wipe that off. You look ridiculous.”

“That’s kinda the point, dude.” Tucker squirms and tries to wiggle out of reach, but Wash catches him by the arm and stops him from getting too far. His attempts to wipe away the paint just end up smearing it all over Tucker’s face. 

“Would you just hold still?”

Instead of a response, Tucker reaches out, drags a and through the still very wet paint on the boat and smears it over the side of Wash’s face. It’s cold and slimy and demands retaliation. Especially when Tucker leans back, smirking. “That’s a good look for you, Wash. Really brings out your eyes.”

Taking a breath, Wash tries to resist the urge to grab Tucker’s still damp and drippy paint brush from the floor. He really does. But the next thing he knows, he’s got it in his hand and he’s half tackled Tucker back onto the floor. Tucker lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a shriek as he tries to bat away his hands. 

They’re both giggling, and Wash doesn’t quite have a good enough grip, so Tucker’s able to get him off balance with a quick move and rolls them over. He dips his hand in the paint again and Wash throws up his hands in front of his face. “Tucker, don’t you fucking dare--”

Paint drips onto his face in big, fat dollops. Well, now he knows what red paint tastes like. It’s not great. Wash shifts, rolling them again before Tucker has a chance to get him pinned. He quickly grabs at Tucker and pressed him down as he tries to catch his breath. 

Tucker’s laughter instantly cuts out as he sucks in a sharp gasp and Wash has ice in his veins, panic surging through him. Oh god. What did he do? Is he holding him too hard? Did he smack Tucker’s head against the ground. Is he bleeding? Fuck there’s so much red paint everywhere…

But Tucker doesn’t look like he’s in pain. His eyelashes flutter and he’s got his head tipped back, hair splayed out over the floor. And he’s gripping at Wash’s wrists, not to toss them away, but to keep them there, because Wash’s hand is pressed to his collarbone, right over…

Oh. Well… fuck.

Wash’s breath is caught in his throat and he can’t move. Tucker looks up at him with half lidded eyes. Jesus Christ, have his eyelashes always been that long? They’re close. Way too close. Wash’s skin is on fire where Tucker’s gripping him, and he doesn’t know when Tucker’s thumb started tracing circles over the pulse in his wrist, but he never wants him to stop. 

It would be so easy to lean down, to finish what he started months ago on the medical transport. Tucker’s eyes are so dark and warm and Wash could drown in them. 

But he remembers the last time he held Tucker down like this. The last time he touched that mark. The nightmare, the knife, what he’d almost done…

Wash jerks away, forcing himself up and off Tucker, scrambling to his feet as he looks anywhere else. “I, uh… I should go see where Caboose went,” he says, staring at the floor. “Be right back.”

And he leaves the room as gracefully as possible. Caboose is probably downstairs in the kitchen, but that’s not where Wash goes. He takes a left before the stairs and barricades himself in the bathroom. 

Wash turns on the shower and steps under the spray, not bothering to pull off his sweats, the fabric heavy and wet as he sinks down against the wall. It’s a little jarring watching the water turn red as it flows into the drain. He’s seen it happen a dozen times, though never because of paint. Taking a breath, he tips his head back and shuts his eyes. 

What the hell had he been thinking? Wash keeps forgetting. He’s not like the rest of them. He doesn’t get to have nice things. He doesn’t get to laugh like his problems are all outside Armonia’s walls. Because they’re always with him. They crawl inside his skin and slither through his head. 

And it’s only a matter of time before they find their way out. 

He can’t put Tucker at that kind of risk. It’s not fair. The fact that Tucker’s got his hand slapped across his skin has to be some kind of joke. He doesn’t deserve that. Tucker needs someone better, someone who won’t stab him in their sleep. Someone who has their head put together. 

Someone Wash is never going to be. 

* * *

“So Wash,” Carolina says after training. It’s just the two of them, the generals and the Reds and Blues had already left for the showers. She had brought her helmet with her for some reason. Epsilon’s projecting himself seated on top of it, which is Wash’s first clue this isn’t going to be a fun talk. They had both insisted earlier that Epsilon was there to help Caboose focus, which he’s apparently been doing in the lessons with him and Carolina. Why he’s still there is a mystery.

He slowly turns from where he’s been stacking up the mats, raising one eyebrow. “Yeah, boss?”

She’s finishing stacking up the weights and doing her best to make it look effortless and casual. As per usual. “How have you been doing lately?”

Wash blinks. That’s a trap if he’s ever heard one. “Fine,” he says slowly, brow furrowing. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” She shrugs and her eyes flick to Epsilon and that can’t be good. “We haven’t talked much lately, and… I was wondering if you’d thought about what I said a while ago?”

Frowning, he tries to think back. Most of their conversations lately have all been about the training or the plans for Unity Day, and most of those talks have included the generals. After a moment, he tips his head to one side. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Carolina’s shoulders slump ever so slightly and again she looks at Epsilon. They’re definitely talking about him in her head and that’s never been more disconcerting. 

Wash crosses his arms. “Is there something we need to talk about, boss?”

“Well…” She and Epsilon are talking about him again. 

“Tucker said you’re acting weird,” Epsilon says finally. 

Wash rolls his eyes and looks to Carolina for help, but doesn’t find any. Instead, she just tips her head to one side, looking at him expectantly. He splutters. “What? I’m not acting weird!”

They don’t even need to exchange the look they do, so Wash knows they’re actively mocking him now. “You wouldn’t get anywhere near any of the guys all day. It was pretty fucking obvious you were trying to avoid them or some shit.”

Well, Epsilon isn’t wrong, and Wash hates him a little for that. Because there’s still no one that can read him like Epsilon can, no one better at picking out all his little tells. 

The distance… it seems like the best idea for the moment. Tucker hadn’t brought up the incident with the paint, but Wash is half sure that’s only because he hasn’t let him. He hasn’t let himself spend much time alone with Tucker… or with any of them lately. It’s for the best that way. The less he touches, the less chance there is for him to hurt. 

It makes some things a little more complicated, and apparently he’s been more obvious than he thought, but it’s the only way. 

Wash doesn’t look at either of them as he shrugs. “I just needed a little space today. It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“Today?” Epsilon scoffs, crossing his arms, helmeted head cocked to one side. “Caboose was about ready to cry yesterday cause you wouldn’t hug him.”

“He was?” Wash blanches, guilt slapping him in the face. Shifting on the spot, he rubs at the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean for… I’ll talk to him.”

For a few long moments, he just feels Carolina’s eyes drilling into his head. Then she sighs. “You really don’t remember what I said, do you?”

He looks up, blinking at her. There’s something almost sad about the smile she gives him. “You’re allowed to want things, Wash. And it’s alright for people to get close to you. I… I thought you would have figured that out by now with all the time you’ve spent with them.”

Wash lets his gaze fall to the floor. A dozen different protests rise to the surface, each fighting to get out first. “It’s not that simple. I’m… the things I’ve done to them--that doesn’t just go away. I can’t pretend it couldn’t happen again.”

“Did something happen?” Carolina sounds a little concerned now, her brow furrowing. 

“Well… not exactly.” Wash shuffles his feet, hand again going to the back of his neck.

There’s a static filled sigh from Epsilon, who drags tiny hands over his visor. “Seriously, Wash? This is all over stuff that  _ might _ happen?”

“It’s happened before,” Wash counters sharply. There’s a tight knot of fury in his chest. If it was anyone else, but this is Epsilon… who knows better than anyone just what Wash is capable of.

But Epsilon just tips his helmet the way he does when he’s rolling his eyes. “Oh please, Wash, that thing with Tucker was ages ago--”

“What?” The anger turns cold and sinks like a stone in his gut. Epsilon flickers for a second and goes quiet. Wash presses his hand more tightly to the back of his neck, swallowing hard. “Tucker told you about that?”

Epsilon looks to Carolina, but she just stares at him. There’s a long pause, and Wash is sure the air has gone out of the room, but Epsilon finally shrugs. “Not really. I mean, okay, I was just in his head and… y’know he’s not really good at keeping his thoughts to himself. It wasn’t like I was digging through his head or anything, but--he thinks about you a lot, okay? And that was just one of the things in there. It’s not like he’s pissed about it or something.”

Well, Wash has no idea what to do with that. He’s pretty sure that’s also the most Epsilon has talked to him since he came out of the memory unit. Which… is a weird thing to be aware of. Because it definitely doesn’t matter. 

But it’s easier to think about that than the fact that Tucker thinks about him. A lot. And loud enough for Epsilon to hear. That eats through the tight bundle of anxiety and for a second, Wash is sure someone must have shut off the gravity, because it feels like he’s floating. 

He wants to ask what else Tucker’s thought about him, but that’s almost certainly an invasion of privacy. And he also doesn’t really want to hear it from Epsilon. That’s just weird. 

Wash manages to shake his head after a moment. “It doesn’t matter if he’s pissed or not. I could have killed him. It’s better if I just keep my distance.”

“Better for who?” Carolina’s voice cuts into him, catching him by surprise. She doesn’t look particularly happy with him for some reason. “Because none of them seem to want you to give them space. From what I can tell, I think they’d prefer you a bit closer. There’s only one person you’re protecting keeping them at an arm’s length, Wash, and I think you know that.”

Wash isn’t sure what his face is doing, but it must be bad, because Carolina falters for a moment, her eyebrows knitting together. “Or… maybe you don’t. Wash, what do you think is going to happen?”

And he doesn’t quite have an answer to that, but he opens and shuts his mouth a few times as he tries to think of one. Carolina cuts him off before he gets there. “Are you planning on going rogue and shooting Donut again?”

“What? No, of course not! But it’s not that simple--”

“I’m not saying it’s simple.” She lets out a breath and shakes out her hands at her sides before crossing the floor to stand in front of him. Her hands are gentle when she grips his arms. Wash always forgets just how tall she is until he finds himself looking up at her. “I’m just saying that you should think about what they want--what Tucker wants. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but they’re adults, Wash, they can decide whether or not they want you around. I think you owe them that, we both do.”

A dozen different arguments flit through his head, but they all turn to dust as he meets her eyes. They look less like her father’s now. There’s a softness there that the Director never had. Wash sighs and manages a faint nod. Carolina lightly squeezes his arms before letting go. 

His doubts aren’t gone. Far from it. But Carolina’s words run around his head again and again as he leaves the gym and heads back to Friendship Mountain (the name’s stuck despite everyone’s best efforts otherwise). Wash has been watching his feet most of the way back, so it’s the slap and crash of wood against stone and the familiar yells that make him stop several feet away before he actually looks at the front steps of the building. 

Caboose is holding a few massive planks while Grif and Simmons yell directions from the top of the steps. Tucker stands a few feet away, leaning against the railing. Wash sighs. “What are you doing?”

He asks loud enough to make himself heard and all four turn toward him. There’s a slight hesitation and a few meaningful exchanged looks before Tucker pushes himself off the railing and hops down the steps. “We’re building a ramp.”

Wash is halfway to asking why when Simmons beats him there. “Sarge is getting out of the infirmary soon and… well, this building isn’t exactly wheelchair accessible.”

And Simmons says it calmly, like it’s obvious… and it probably should be. Wash hadn’t even thought about that. But the Reds and Blues had. Because they think about these things, they take care of each other. 

Carolina’s words flit through his head again. The other four are all looking at him, like they’re expecting him to shut it down, or start yelling. Simmons is already hunching in on himself and Grif has his arms crossed defiantly. Caboose just looks confused, but Tucker’s face is harder to read, those big, bright eyes fixed on him.

Wash slowly wanders closer, eyeing the steps critically. “We should use something metal instead of wood, it’ll be smoother that way. I think I saw some old tank plating near the motorpool.”

Caboose lights up and drops the wooden planks with a crash and leaps down the steps. The rest of them have to almost jog to keep up with him as he heads straight for the motorpool. Wash feels a slight nudge and isn’t surprise to find Tucker falling into step at his side, slight smile on his face. It’s the easiest thing in the world to return it and gently nudge him back. 

The ramp isn’t perfect, but they manage to get it fixed fairly well to the steps, enough at least that Wash feels mostly confident Sarge won’t get injured any worse if he tries to use it. Caboose slides down it a few times, which makes him slightly concerned about the incline, but at least it stays steady under him, so it shouldn’t bend under Sarge. 

He has to coach himself a little, but Wash makes sure not to shy away when the others get close. When Tucker hands him tools, he takes them without worrying about their fingers brushing, and he only flinches a little when Caboose declares that he’s tired and slumps on top of him. It’s not perfect, and it’s not easy, but it feels like a step forward. And for now, it’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I just really want Donut and Wash to have a Leslie Knope and Anne Perkins sort of relationship, let me dream. But remember how I said I would be better about responding to comments? I'm so sorry I'm socially awkward and terrible at remember things, but thank you so, so much to everyone who's left comments or kudos! I know the last few chapters have been kind of slow, but we'll be getting back into the good stuff soon!


	17. But You Come Back to What You Need

Things for Unity Day are going well, for the most part. Missions have slowed a bit in favor of trying to fix relations between the Feds and rebels. Which is… still very much a work in progress. With Carolina off gathering intel, Wash has taken to inviting Donut to more and more training sessions. The soldiers all like him well enough, and the only one with a more persuasive set of puppy dog eyes in Armonia is Caboose. 

In exchange, Wash offers to take on some of the work for the big day. It takes approximately three and a half seconds for him to regret doing so as Kimball, Doyle, and Donut all do their best to drown him in paperwork and fill what little room he has left in his schedule with meeting after meeting. Apparently wrangling two armies and scattered civilians here and there into anything manageable is less like herding cats and more like trying to teach the cats how to perform a Cirque de Soleil routine. 

Wash is dead on his feet when he trudges back to his room and collapses onto his bed after the seventh meeting that day. Training troops is one thing. At least with that he just has to scream at people and sometimes dodge training blades. But talking with people for hours on end, trying to get them to all cooperate and listen, it’s beyond exhausting. 

He feels sort of bad for ducking out of that last meeting early and leaving Donut and Doyle to handle the rest of it, but not that bad. Especially since those two actually seem to  _ like _ talking to people about this sort of thing for some reason. 

There’s a soft knock at his door and Wash groans and presses his face into his pillow. “For the last time, I don’t care what color the streamers are as long as they don’t catch fire, Donut.”

“Who’s setting shit on fire?” Tucker’s voice isn’t the one he expects, but it’s sort of a relief to hear. 

It takes far more effort than it should for Wash to push himself up to look toward the door. Tucker’s leaning against the doorframe, a datapad in one hand. Wash sighs as he leans back on one arm. “Me if you’ve got a note from Doyle on that about more stage preparations.” 

“Nah, it’s from Kimball. She wants you to sign off on uh,” Tucker pauses, glancing down at the datapad, brow furrowing, “new training schedule for the lieutenants. Apparently she wants us training them to handle their own squads.”

“Let me see.” Wash sits up and stretches out a hand. Tucker crosses the room to him, handing over the datapad as he plops down onto the bed next to him, the mattress creaking and bouncing with his weight. 

Flicking through the notes, Wash nods to himself. “Seems reasonable. It wouldn’t hurt to have more people capable of leading missions to handle some of the smaller things.”

Tucker nods, but he’s not looking at the datapad. Wash can feel him staring. “Dude, when was the last time you got some sleep? You look like shit.”

Wash resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m sleeping fine, Tucker. It’s just… dealing with all this is more tiring than expected. I’ll just be happy to put this Unity Day business behind us.”

“No fucking kidding. Who’s bright idea was this anyway?” Tucker snorts. 

“Mine.”

“Oh… uh, I mean, Donut says there’s gonna be cake, so that’ll be cool.” Tucker backtracks quickly and offers him a smile that’s a little too wide. 

Letting out a faint huff of a laugh, Wash shakes his head as he goes back to scrolling through the datapad. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly picture all this when it initially came up.” 

He scrolls down, skimming the last of the new schedule. Honestly, Wash hasn’t read half of it, but Kimball’s tweaks to training regimens are usually fairly reasonable and easy to account for. So he signs with his finger and hands the datapad off to Tucker. 

For some reason, Tucker frowns as he glances at it, one of his eyebrows rising. “Did you seriously just sign this ‘Agent Washington’?”

Wash blinks at him as he tries to fight down a yawn. “How else would I sign it?”

Tucker rolls his eyes and lightly nudges Wash with his elbow. “Maybe with your name, dude.”

“That is my name,” he says almost automatically. 

Head tipping to one side, Tucker blinks at him quizzically. “Are you telling me your parents named you Agent? Cause that’s kinda what it sounds like.”

“What? Well, no, they didn’t. But… it’s my name now.” Wash shifts, hands falling to pluck at the sheets under him. “It’s the only name that matters.”

A hand alights on the back of his neck and he almost jolts, but Tucker’s callus covered fingers are gentle and soft where they cover the implants, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over old scars. “But you had a different name before, right? Like a regular one? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I did,” he says, nodding slowly, not wanting to jar Tucker’s hand. It’s nice, far nicer than it has any right to be. “I’m just… I’m not that person anymore. I’m Wash now.”

And he hesitates, glancing sidelong at Tucker. There’s no judgement there, no irritation, just open curiosity. Which is why Wash sighs as he looks away again. “David,” he says after a moment. “David O’Donnell. That’s what it used to be.”

“David, huh?” Wash has to fight the urge to cringe. Even coming from Tucker the name sounds wrong now. That’s a different person, a different life. “Yeah, you definitely look like more of a Wash.”

Wash can’t stop the smile that spreads over his face as he looks at Tucker, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Well that’s good to know.”

There’s still a hint of a question lingering in Tucker’s face. His teeth go to his lip and Wash tries not to stare. “Why don’t you like your old name? Uh… if it’s not cool for me to ask that, just forget I did.”

“No, no it’s alright.” And Wash… actually has to think about that. Brow furrowing, he leans back a little, still feeling that gentle weight against his implants. “It’s--what I said before. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t feel like David now. And… I’m alright with that. Looking back, I don’t think I like David very much. He wasn’t--I wasn’t a particularly good person back then.”

It’s easier to talk about himself, his old life in third person. Thinking back, trying to find those old memories, it’s like watching someone else’s home movies now. They don’t feel real sometimes, and they certainly don’t feel like his. 

“Well,” Tucker says, cutting into his thoughts, pulling him out before he sinks too deep. “Do you like being Wash more?”

Again, Wash has to think about it. What does Wash have that David didn’t? Other than several years of perspective and self-awareness. There’s plenty of mistakes under both names, but Wash has people who care about him. People who show up at his door at all hours to ask him for advice, or to drag him to dinner, or just to see how he’s doing. David didn’t have that. David didn’t think he needed that. 

Wash knows better now. He’s still getting there, but… really, it’s not that hard of a question. 

Very slowly, he nods. “I think I do.”

“Well, then you’re Washington now.” There’s something so decisive about the way Tucker says it, like there’s some weight to it. “Kinda weird not having a last name though. I mean, unless you want Agent to be your first name.”

Making a face, Wash snorts. “I think I’ll drop the Agent. But… I guess I never really thought about that.”

He tips his head back again, thinking. It’s not a terrible thing to consider. Because someday, maybe, he might actually be done with all this war business. And he’ll go back to being a civilian, and he’ll need a name. He definitely doesn’t want to go back to David O’Donnell. 

“You could pick one of ours,” Tucker says, shrugging. “Washington Tucker sounds okay.”

For a second, everything seems to go completely silent, the name ringing in Wash’s ears, a strange warm feeling slowly growing in his chest. His mouth is suddenly very dry and his palms are sweaty. He blinks at Tucker, half expecting to suddenly wake up alone. But he doesn’t. Tucker’s still there, just looking at him with those big doe eyes. 

“You… you want me to take your last name?” The words trip out of his mouth like a stumble down the stairs. His face feels a little warm, but it’s nothing compared to the sunbeam that has to be bursting out of his chest. 

Tucker blinks, brow furrowing. Then it clicks and his eyes widen, chapped lips falling into a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. “Uh, I mean… if you want to, you could. That’s not--is that weird? Cause, dude--”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.” But that’s not right. Because it’s so much more than fine. The Reds and Blues keep giving him pieces of themselves. They’ve given him clothes, food, a home, a life. It’s so much more than he could ever deserve. 

And Tucker, honestly, without a second thought, like it’s as easy as breathing, wants to give him his name. Because everything he has, he’s willing to share. Because Tucker is made of trust and warmth and everything Wash has craved for so, so long. 

“Tucker, I… you…” He doesn’t have words for this. So he moves, leaning forward, one hand coming up to cup Tucker’s jaw as Wash kisses him square on the lips.

It takes a few seconds for Wash’s brain to catch up with what he’s doing. And as he draws back it clicks. 

Well fuck.

Tucker’s staring at him with wide eyes, completely frozen in shock. Oh god. Wash just did that. He just ruined everything. Fuck. He should say something. He should do something. 

Wash is up and moving before he can think, before Tucker can say anything. He’s across the room in an instant, yanking the window open so he can dive out of it. There’s a fire escape outside that he catches himself on briefly on his way to the ground. But that’s not enough to stop the shooting pain that goes up his leg when he lands a little awkwardly on one ankle. 

He doesn’t let it slow him down. Not looking back, Wash sprints, darting down side streets and through back alleys at random until he’s half a dozen blocks away. Out of breath, ankle throbbing, he finally stops in the alley behind an empty building that’s being used to store supplies. Wash presses himself back against the wall and slowly sinks down it. 

Knees tucked to his chest, he buries his face in his hands. Oh god. This is it. This is where it all falls apart. Tucker won’t want anything to do with him, and the others will follow suit. God, what had he been thinking? Well, he hadn’t been thinking, that’s the whole problem. It… it hadn’t been much of a kiss. Not like he had tried to jump Tucker right there. It wasn’t as though he had pinned him to the bed and...

And he needs to stop thinking about  _ that _ right now. 

Goddamn it, what the hell is wrong with him? He shouldn’t be thinking about Tucker like that. Hell, Wash shouldn’t be thinking about anyone like that. There hasn’t been anyone--not since Maine, and the burnt out mark on his hip shows just how that went. This can’t be anything. And it won’t be. Maybe he can pass it off as an accident, or a joke. If he just--

“Agent Washington?” 

Caboose’s voice jerks him out of his thoughts. For someone so massive, Caboose can sure move quietly when he wants to. The concern on his face eases a little as Wash looks up at him. “Hello Caboose,” he says, managing to keep his voice steady. 

“Hello Wash! What are you doing back here? Are you playing hide and seek? I can hide with you, I’m very good at hiding.” Caboose sits next to him without waiting for an answer. 

“I’m… I guess I’m sort of hiding.” Wash leans back against the wall and lets out a breath. Shifting, he stretches out his leg, trying to fight back a wince at the throb from his ankle. It doesn’t feel broken, but it’s at least a little messed up. 

“Who are you hiding from? Is it the generals? Do they want to yell next to you again?” 

“No, Caboose, it’s not--”

“Are you hiding from Tucker?”

Wash is sure a brick just dropped into his stomach. He slowly turns to Caboose, trying to keep his face free of all emotion. How did Tucker already tell him? How does he already know? Maybe he doesn’t. Just breathe. “Why would I be hiding from Tucker?”

“Because Tucker’s stupid and easy to hide from.We play hide and seek all the time and he never finds me. I think it’s because I’m the best at hiding,” Caboose says confidently. It doesn’t sound like he’s lying. Wash is pretty sure Caboose doesn’t know how to lie actually. 

So he doesn’t know yet. 

Wash hesitates, weighing his options. “I’m sort of hiding from Tucker.”

“Why?” Caboose tips his head to one side. There’s that innocent openness there that always does something strange to Wash’s nerves. He could tell Caboose just about anything and he’d believe him. 

“Did you get in a fight? Do I need to beat up Tucker for you?” Caboose asks, half rising. 

“What? No Caboose, don’t!” Wash reaches out and grabs at Caboose’s shoulder pulling him back down. Caboose goes easily, but there’s something different about his face now as his gaze slowly goes to the spot where Wash is gripping him. 

Oh god fucking damn it. Why can’t he do anything right today? 

“Caboose,” he says slowly, carefully pulling his hands back. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but Caboose just looks at him for a long moment before an impossibly big smile spreads across his face. 

There’s nowhere to go when Caboose reaches for him and yanks him into an almost crushing hug. Wash has no idea what to do or say, but Caboose is babbling on and on in his ear about best friend marks and he sounds so genuinely happy that Wash can’t bring himself to interrupt. So he just lets out a quiet sigh and rests his head on Caboose’s shoulder. 

Eventually, Caboose has to stop to catch his breath, and Wash pulls back a little. It’s not that he minds the hug. That’s… sort of nice actually. Maybe even if things fall apart with Tucker, which they almost certainly will, Caboose won’t abandon him. It’s selfish, but he can’t force the thought out of his head. 

Wash tries to return the smile Caboose is still giving him, but his own falls a little short. 

“So, why are you hiding from Tucker?” Oh good, he hasn’t forgotten that yet. 

Shifting a little, Wash shrugs, turning to stare at the wall across the alley from them. “I… It’s nothing he did, Caboose. It’s my fault.”

“Did you beat him up again? Because the monsters in your head are not you, Wash, so that is not your fault, and you should not listen to the mean people who tell you that.” Caboose’s massive hand moves to his shoulder. That’s not the issue here, but… for some reason the words are still strangely comforting. 

Wash is just going to tuck that away to deal with later. He shakes his head and rubs at the back of his neck. “No, I didn’t beat him up. It’s… I think I made him uncomfortable.”

“You took away his blankets?”

He’s just going to have to say it, isn’t he? Sighing, Wash shakes his head again. “No Caboose. I, uh… I kissed him.”

And he winces, waiting for… something. Honestly, he’s not quite sure what. But there’s just silence. Very, very slowly, he risks looking at Caboose. There’s a slight furrow to his brow, big brown eyes filled with confusion. “And then what?”

Wash blinks at him. Alright, he knows that Caboose isn’t aware of how… certain things work, but he’s pretty sure this should be self explanatory. “And then… nothing. I kissed him and made him uncomfortable, so… now I’m hiding. I don’t think he’ll want to see me for a while after that.”

“Yeah, Wash, I don’t know. Tucker likes kissing people. And he likes you, so I do not think he would mind if you kissed him. He would probably like it more if you stopped hiding from him and went back to the kissing,” Caboose says, nodding to himself. 

With a sigh, Wash shakes his head. “Caboose, you don’t understand. I’ve jeopardized our friendship, and completely betrayed his trust. I don’t know if he’s going to even want to come near me--”

“Wash.” There’s a surprising firmness to Caboose’s voice, his hand gently squeezing Wash’s shoulder. “You are very smart, and there are a lot of things you know about, but I have known Tucker for a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very long time. And I have seen him look at a lot of people, but… there is a very special way he looks at you. So I think you are overreacting. Just a little bit.”

And Wash has no idea what to do with that, his brow furrowing. He wants to disagree about the overreacting part. But… he did just literally jump out a window to avoid an unpleasant conversation. Maybe Caboose has a point, at least there anyway. Wash likes to think he’s a responsible adult. So much for that.

Letting out a breath, he rubs at the back of his neck. One shoulder rises in a faint shrug. “I suppose there is a… slight chance I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Caboose hums, nodding almost idly. “Because you like Tucker?”

Heat rises in Wash’s face and he stares at the ground as he nods. “Yes, I… I like Tucker, although that’s not exactly why I jumped out the window. I did that because...”

“You don’t think he likes you back?”

Caboose has a way of putting things so simply, so honestly. He strips away the complicated mess that makes up most of Wash’s head. It’s a little jarring, maybe because he hadn’t quite been thinking of it in those terms. But that’s it. Part of it anyway. There’s a dozen other reasons, but now that Caboose has said that one, it drifts around his head, coats everything else and drags it all down. 

He manages an awkward nod. “Partially, yes. And because of that, I think… I’ve made things uncomfortable for him.”

“Yeah,” Caboose says, dragging out the word. “I don’t know. Kissing is not a bad thing, Wash. And Tucker usually likes that. I remember he used to try to kiss people all the time so he would be less sad about you being captured.”

Well that’s definitely something Wash doesn’t need to think about too much in any way. There’s a surge of a few different feelings, but he’s just going to shove that right back down and tuck away in a neat little box to deal with never. “I see. I… I should probably talk to him about it.”

Because that’s the responsible thing to do here. He made a mistake and crossed a line and he needs to be an adult and accept that. Goddamn he doesn’t want to. Wash has seen the awkwardness with Tucker and Epsilon, felt the way it still lingers now and then. He doesn’t want that. But he’s brought it on himself. Damn it. 

Then again… the longer he puts it off, the worse that’s probably going to get. There’s no winning here. 

With a sigh, he rises and the immediately winces, a jolt of pain shooting up his leg. Caboose steadies him instantly, worry written all over his face. Wash lifts a hand and it’s something of a relief to just be able to pat Caboose’s shoulder now. He faintly shakes his head. “I’m alright, I think I just sprained my ankle. I’ll just head over to the infirmary--”

Before he can finish the sentence, Caboose has him carefully tucked against his chest, carrying him as if he weighs nothing at all. “Do not worry, Wash. I will take you there. I was going to go tell the sergeant about his pirate ship anyway.”

There… probably isn’t any point in arguing with that

So Wash leans against Caboose’s shoulder and nods along here and there as his teammate goes on and on about the adventures they’re going to have in their pirate ship. He’s pretty sure Caboose has no idea what a pirate actually does, but his ideas are definitely… interesting to say the least. And it’s actually fairly comfortable in his arms. Which isn’t something Wash should spend too much time thinking about. 

At least Caboose takes a somewhat deserted route to the infirmary so there’s only a few people who get to see him being carried, though it doesn’t attract the stares Wash expects. The few rebels and Feds they pass don’t seem at all surprised. Some even pause to wave at Caboose, who offers friendly hellos to everyone. 

Wash actually recognizes most of the faces they pass, even if he can’t always put a name to them. Then again, that probably shouldn’t be much of a surprise. He’s probably had almost all of them in one or more of his training sessions. But he doesn’t know them the way Caboose does. They don’t light up in the gym the way they do when his big, blue teammate smiles and addresses all of them by name. 

“You’ve certainly made a lot of friends here,” he says, a touch of fondness creepy into his voice as he looks up at Caboose. 

“Oh yes! Everyone here is very nice. They do not always get along, but they would like to. But they don’t know how to not fight, so I have been teaching them how to hug instead!” Caboose looks quite proud of himself for that. 

Finding himself smiling a little, Wash reaches up, lightly patting his shoulder. “That’s great, buddy.”

The way Caboose beams down at him makes Wash feel like the world might not be falling apart around him. 

* * *

The infirmary is almost deserted when they arrive, which Wash is unspeakably thankful for. Apart from a few curtained off beds toward the opposite end of the room, there’s just Sarge and Dr. Grey there when Caboose all but charges through the doors. 

“Miss Scary Doctor, please help Agent Washington.” Caboose has a slightly urgent note to his voice that makes guilt twist in Wash’s gut. 

“Caboose, it’s really not that bad--”

But Dr. Grey is already right there, leaning up on her tiptoes to peer at Wash, a faint hint of worry in her eyes. “What seems to be the problem, Captain?”

Wash vaguely wonders why she’s asking Caboose, it isn’t as though he wouldn’t tell her about his injury… alright, maybe he suddenly understands a little. 

“He broke his leg running from Tucker. Please fix it. But please do not fix it by taking away his leg like Colonel Sergeant's.”

Wash can’t quite fight down a wince, because Caboose’s voice definitely carried over to Sarge’s bed, but when he risks a glance over, the old soldier doesn’t look particularly bothered. He’s just looking at the pair of them curiously, setting the magazine he’d apparently been reading down on his lap. 

Dr. Grey shakes her head. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Please, set him down on the bed here.”

“It really isn’t that bad, I think I only sprained it.” But Wash is pretty sure neither of them are actually paying him much attention as Caboose carefully sets him on the bed and then hovers at his side, rocking back and forth on his feet. 

He doesn’t want to do this the hard way, so he rolls up the leg of his pants when Dr. Grey asks and sits there patiently while she carefully inspects his ankle. It does look a bit swollen now that he actually looks at it. Just great. At least it doesn’t actually feel broken. And that’s not his stiff upper lip talking. Really, it isn’t. Because Wash is pretty sure that, after all this time, he knows what a broken bone feels like. 

That’s definitely not something he should brag about though. He’s pretty sure even just saying it would attract some looks from Grey. Maybe Sarge too. And Wash soooo doesn’t need that right now. 

“Hmm, it does seem to just be sprained,” Dr. Grey says, once she seems to be done. “I’ll get you some ice to help the swelling go down and a brace, which I want you wearing until further notice.”

Her voice has the usual cheer and brightness to it, but there’s a tone that implies arguing isn’t going to get him anywhere fast. So he just lets out a little sigh and nods. Dr. Grey heads off to fetch the ice and the brace and Wash glares down at his treacherous ankle. 

“How’d you manage that, son?” Sarge is sitting up in his bed, peering over at him. “What was it Caboose said you were doing?”

Wash winces, because he knows there’s no way he can stop Caboose from answering that before he can. Caboose is already bouncing in the seat he’s pulled up next to Wash’s bed. Pressing a hand to his face, he just sinks back in the bed. There’s not much point in trying to interrupt Caboose once he gets going. 

“Oh Wash was running and hiding from Tucker because they kissed and now he’s all shy and embarrassed even though kisses are nice things. But Wash doesn’t think he gets nice things and that is kind of sad,” Caboose says, with a strangely knowing nod. 

The conversation with Carolina and Epsilon drifts back through his head and Wash is suddenly sure that everyone has been conspiring behind his back. Or at least talking about him far more than they should be. He’s not entirely sure why this has to be everyone’s business… although Sarge doesn’t look particularly surprised as he nods in turn. 

Why is everyone talking about this? Why does everyone just think that? It isn’t that he doesn’t think he can have nice things, it’s… that he doesn’t deserve them. Which is completely different. Sort of. 

Damn it. People really need to just stop worrying about that. It isn’t a big deal. 

Sarge is looking at him and saying something, he should really be paying attention to that. He tunes back in mid word. “--bout time. I was starting to think y’all’d never get around to it. But was it you that made the first move or Tucker?”

Wash blinks at him. “I don’t see why that matters.”

“It matters cause I had twenty hours of wall patrol on it,” Sarge says sternly. 

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.” Wash presses his hands over his face. When he looks up a moment later, both Caboose and Sarge are looking at him expectantly. He cocks an eyebrow. “You too, Caboose?”

The betrayal knows no bounds. 

“If Tucker kissed you first, Donut owes me seven coloring books and a new pair of shoes.”

Wash’s brow furrows. “Why do you need new shoes?”

“Freckles chewed up my old ones.”

Okay… he’s just going to let that one go. He sighs. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you Caboose--”

“Dagnabbit! I should’ve known to never bet on a Blue.” Sarge crosses his arms and mutters darkly under his breath. 

“Sarge, we’re both Blue.”

“Exactly! There’s no winning, so I fell right for another one of your dirty blue tricks!”

“I don’t--you know what, never mind.” His hands go back to his face. It’s been a very long day and it’s barely noon. 

Dr. Grey spares him from any further mortification by returning and busying herself attending to Wash’s leg. At least when she asks how it happened, Wash manages to beat Caboose to the punch. “I fell.”

She gives him a look and a little nod, clearly expecting him to elaborate, so he sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. “Alright it was less a fall and more… a jump. Out the window, but only from the second floor, and I caught myself on the fire escape… mostly.”

“And why did you do that?” she asks, voice a little too sweet, something in her eyes sparkling dangerously. 

“He was running from Tucker,” Caboose supplies helpfully. He grabs a jar of tongue depressors from a small table covered in medical supplies and starts pulling them out one by one, and tucking them into his pockets.

Wash should probably tell him to stop that, but… honestly, he’s sort of curious as to what Caboose is even going to do with those. Dr. Grey is still looking at him and he lets out a breath. “I was… sort of doing that. I just--I did something I shouldn’t have and I panicked.”

There’s a very, very faint hint of amusement on her face as she tips her head to one side. “Agent Washington, I do hope that you don’t usually jump out of windows when you’re alarmed. That isn’t a particularly healthy response to fear.”

“I know.” He hangs his head sheepishly. 

The bed shifts a little as she sits on it, her hand landing lightly on his knee. “Wash, would you mind joining me for tea later this week?”

Well that’s definitely not what he’s expecting her to say. Wash blinks at her for a moment and then glances over at Sarge and Caboose. Both of them seem to be very purposefully not listening all of a sudden, Caboose examining a box of tissues with intent focus and Sarge all but shoving his face into a magazine. 

Looking back to Grey, he hesitates for a moment before nodding. “I wouldn’t mind…”

“Wonderful!” She’s just about beaming at him. “It’s been so long since we had a chance to just talk. Well, you’re all fixed up, just keep the compression wrap on for the rest of the day and try to keep your leg elevated if you can.”

She gives his knee a little squeeze and pushes herself up to go examine Sarge’s leg. They start talking in soft voices filled with endearments, which Wash takes as his cue to leave and gently tug Caboose along with him. There’s a tissue on his head and three tongue depressors stuck to his face, which Wash just… isn’t going to question. Caboose seems happy with them there, so he’s not going to rain on his parade. 

* * *

The walk back to Friendship Mountain is one of the longest in Wash’s life. He tries to pay attention to Caboose, he really does, but it’s almost impossibly to stop his thoughts from drifting. Halfway there, a group of Feds call Caboose over and he pats Wash on the shoulder before bounding away, leaving him without even a hint of a distraction. 

Maybe Tucker won’t want to talk to him. What if he’s moved his things to a different floor to get away? What if he wants Wash to move? That’s probably fair. He’s the newest member of the team, he should be the one to leave. Maybe he can live with the Reds on the third floor. Although… most of them have been setting up to move down the the ground level. 

It isn’t something any of them have been talking about, but the Reds have slowly been drifting downstairs. They all know why. The building doesn’t have a functional elevator, something Grif had complained about almost constantly when they had first moved it. It hadn’t seemed particularly important then. 

But now, honestly, Wash thinks Grif might have had a point. 

He stops at the foot of the ramp and looks up at the building. The light in Tucker’s room doesn’t seem to be on. Wash has the layout of the floors memorized, something Grif and Tucker had both rolled their eyes at him for. 

Donut’s light isn’t on either. So there’s probably not a chance of pulling him into the lounge for drinks to take his mind off how much he’s fucked everything up. Maybe he can just go back to his room and hide for a while. Like an adult. God, why is he such a mess?

He limps his way up the stairs and wanders into his room. His eyes go to the window, and he frowns. Someone’s shut it since his earlier dive. Well, that’s a little odd. 

“Hey Wash.”

He freezes as Tucker’s voice cuts into his thoughts and the door snaps shut behind him. Turning, he finds Tucker leaning against the wall. He must have been right behind the door waiting for him. How long has he been there?

Wash glances at the window.

“Dude, if you fucking jump again, I swear to god--”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says, very quickly, lying through his teeth. His eyes flick back to Tucker, trying to figure out what the expression on his face means. He doesn't look angry or upset, so that’s probably good. 

If anything, Tucker just looks sort of tired. He sits on Wash’s bed and pats the spot next to him. “Would you sit down already?”

Wash doesn’t miss the way Tucker’s eyes flick over his leg, the corners of his mouth turning down. He fights back a wince as he sits on the bed, leaving a good foot of room between them. “It really isn’t that bad, it’s just sprained.”

“Uh huh.” Tucker still looks skeptical. His arms are crossed over his chest and his face still isn’t giving Wash very many hints, but he definitely doesn’t look happy. 

That’s… probably fair. Glancing away, Wash rubs at the back of his neck. They should talk. That’s almost certainly why Tucker’s here in the first place. “I’m sorry, about earlier.”

“Which part?”

Wash blinks, eyebrows rising. “What?”

“Which part are you sorry about? The kissing thing or the jumping out the window bullshit?”

That sounds like a trick question. Wash gnaws at the inside of his cheek, hesitating. “Both?” he says, feeling like that’s wrong. “I was out of line. That was completely inappropriate and--”

“Oooooh my god.” Tucker presses his hands to his face and flops back on the bed. His fingers shift enough for him to glare at Wash through them. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

Okay, Wash is definitely missing something here. His brows knit together as he nods a little uncertainly. “Yeah--why wouldn’t I be serious?”

Tucker snorts, though he still looks displeased. “Fine, okay, I walked into that one.” 

He pushes himself up on one elbow and reaches for Wash, grabbing at his wrist. Wash lets Tucker pull him a little closer, shifting over inch by inch like he’s moving to the edge of a cliff. 

Dark eyes look up at him from under long, thick lashes and Wash can almost feel himself topple over the edge. Tucker tips his head to one side, the corner of his mouth twitching a little. “I’m not pissed at you, Wash. Well, okay, not about the kissing part. The window thing was kinda shitty though.”

Wash ducks his head, feeling his face burn. God, he should say something here, but there’s a wave of shock that he can’t quite get past. Tucker didn’t mind the kiss? Well… this is Tucker. He does usually like physical affection. So alright, maybe, just… just maybe Wash overreacted. Just a little. 

“That wasn’t one of my better moments,” Wash admits, with an awkward bob of his head. “It’s--it’s been a very long time since I’ve tried to kiss anyone. I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

“So you figured you’d just swan dive off the fire escape?” Tucker snorts. 

“It wasn’t a swan dive! I was pretty sure I could land that jump. Mostly sure--it worked out alright.”

“Uh huh, and how long does Dr. Grey want you wearing that brace thingy?” Tucker lightly nudges his foot against Wash’s. 

“Shut up.”

Laughing, Tucker shakes his head as he sits up again. He shifts closer, their arms brushing together in a way that sends a little shiver down Wash’s spine. “Soooo,” he says, dragging out the word, still looking up at him through those stupid beautiful eyelashes. “You’re like… super into me, huh?”

Wash makes a few inarticulate noises and he’s pretty sure he just dipped his face in a volcano the way it burns. His eyes drop to the floor and his hand moves to the back of his neck--but Tucker’s beats him there. 

Callus covered fingers are gentle and steady as they pull him to lean closer to Tucker. Lips press against his cheek and Wash’s eyes slip shut as his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do with this. It’s been so long. 

But then Tucker’s pulling away and getting up, shaking out his hands a little as he paces back and forth. Wash’s brow furrows as he watches him. It takes a moment for it to click. 

Maybe he’s not the only one that’s been scared out of his mind about what might happen here. 

Tucker walks the length of the room a few times before he stops and looks to Wash. There’s a sudden apprehension on his face as he drags a hand through his hair. “You’re so goddamn frustrating, you know that?”

That’s so far from what Wash is expecting, so he just blinks at Tucker. That doesn’t seem to slow him down much and he goes back to pacing, speaking more and more rapidly as he goes. 

“Cause, okay I was pretty fucking sure there was something going on with you--with us. Like, that time back in the cave, dude, I thought you were gonna kiss me right there, but then you just didn’t so, like, I think I’m imagining this shit. Or I’m reading too far into stuff, or your freckles hypnotized me or something, I dunno. But then there was that shit on the ride back, and then with the paint and just--”

His hands curl tight into his hair and he lets out a low, wordless noise of frustration. It seems to take him a few moments to catch his breath before he turns back and jabs an accusing finger in Wash’s direction. “You send so many goddamn mixed signals--you asshole. But… but you  _ are _ into me, right? Like that’s a thing?”

For a second, Wash just stares. There’s a strange mix of feelings that he doesn’t even know where to start sifting through. But mostly, there’s relief--relief that Tucker doesn’t hate him, that he still wants to be around him… and that maybe he’s not the only one there with a big bundle of neuroses to deal with. 

Swallowing thickly, he nods. “It is. I mean, I am. Yes.”

Tucker’s entire body sags with relief as he lets out a sigh that seems to work its way right up from his toes. “Fuck yeah, you are.”

In two quick steps, Tucker’s in front of him, climbing onto the bed, knees bracketing Wash’s legs. Hands cup his jaw like he’s something precious and Tucker kisses him like it’s the last thing he’s ever going to do. Wash sucks in a sharp breath through his nose and tries to figure out what to do with his hands. They settle at Tucker’s waist as he lets his eyes close. 

He’s definitely out of practice, and the enthusiasm on both sides far outweighs the grace. Teeth clack together and Tucker’s pressing their faces together in a way that smashes Wash’s nose against his a little painfully. It’s a bit of a mess and so is he and he loves every second of it. 

Kissing Maine had always been a breathless, feverish thing that left every nerve tingling. But kissing Tucker is like coming home. 

One of Tucker’s hands slides to his chest, pushing him back a little and Wash leans, bracing himself on one arm. Enough of his brain is still functioning enough to have an idea where this is going and… okay, it’s not a bad place, but there’s a rush of nerves through his veins that back him pull back. There’s a soft whine from Tucker that almost makes him lean right back in.

No, self-control. They need to talk more. Words. Make the words happen. “Wait, Tucker, I--we should talk about this.”

Tucker pouts and god, he wants to kiss him again. Wash has self-control, but he’s not a saint, so he leans in and steals a quick, chaste kiss, making sure not to linger as he sits up a little more. There’s still a Tucker in his lap and he’s not sure what to do with his hands, so they end up at Tucker’s waist. 

“What’s there to talk about, dude? You’re into me, I think you’re hot as fuck, seems pretty simple to me,” Tucker says, shrugging as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Right, but… I think we should establish what this is--what we are to each other here. With this.” God, this is why he never talked about things with Maine. He’s fucking terrible at it. Wash can’t quite meet Tucker’s eyes. “If this is just… casual, that’s alright, but I think we should be clear about it to begin with.”

“Is that what you want?” Tucker’s tone catches him a little off guard. There’s something softer there than he expects. 

Wash risks a glance up at his face. There’s no obvious tells there, but there’s… something in Tucker’s eyes. He should probably say yes. Let this be something casual and easy. Lord knows they could both use a little stress relief now and then, and it isn’t as if that’s not somewhat appealing, but…

It’s not what he wants. And maybe… maybe he can let himself have just something, just this one thing. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I have feelings. For you.”

“Sexy feelings?” Tucker wiggles his eyebrows, but there’s a little grin playing around his lips that makes something warm crawl through Wash’s veins. 

With a faint laugh, he ducks his head. “Yes, there’s definitely some of those. But it’s not just that, Tucker. If… if we do this, I want it to be… something. I-I don’t know what, but something special. I care about you, and I want this to mean something.”

There, he did it, he put it out there and the world didn’t end. Huh, maybe the others have a point. 

But there’s anxiety churning up his insides, fighting with that pleasant warm haze, poking holes in all his happy thoughts. “But if that’s not something you want, I completely understand. I know I’m not exactly the ideal--”

Tucker presses a finger to his lips. “Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there, Wash. I’m cool with that.”

Wash blinks at him, eyes widening. “Really? Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Tucker shrugs, a wide grin spreading across his face. There’s a hint of something sheepish there as he drags a hand through his hair, his eyes flicking away. “I mean, y’know, it was already gonna be special, cause… you’re fucking awesome and shit. And I like hanging around you. Like a lot. So… yeah… can we go back to making out now?”

Instead of answering, Wash grabs at the collar of Tucker’s shirt and drags him in. Tucker’s hands hook around the back of his neck as their lips meet. It’s slower than the one before, sweeter. Tucker clearly knows what he’s going, his motions gentle but insistent as he coaxes Wash’s lips apart and then does this thing with his tongue that sends a shudder through him. 

Again, he leans back, slowly lowering himself back onto the bed. Tucker shifts above him, pressing closer, hands sliding down Wash’s neck, leaving warm, burning trails in their wake. Their lips break for breath and Tucker’s mouth goes to his neck, lips warm and wet and open. He can feel the heat creeping up over his skin. It’s been so long, he can’t remember the last time…

Except he can. 

Maine’s hands everywhere, too much, pushed by a voice that was never his, grabbing, holding, hurting--

“T-Tucker, wait.” Wash pushes lightly at Tucker’s chest and feels an immense sense of relief when that’s enough to make him move. Tucker blinks down at him, eyes widening a little. 

“What’s wrong? Fuck, did I bite you or something?” Tucker asks, his hand moving to Wash’s neck as if to check. 

He catches Tucker’s hand as he shakes his head. There’s a treacherous part of his brain that’s pretty sure he wouldn’t mind in the least if Tucker had bitten him, but that’s not the issue now. Thumb moving over Tucker’s knuckles, he takes a steadying breath. “No it’s… I haven’t done this in a while. Years. And the last time it… it didn’t go well. So would it--would it be alright if we just took it slow?”

There’s the slightest deflation to Tucker’s shoulders and Wash almost wants to take it all back. But then something changes in Tucker’s face, there’s a fondness there and something determined and he reaches up, cupping Wash’s face with both hands again as he leans in and kisses his forehead. “Slow’s good for me, dude.”

“Are you sure?” Wash’s teeth find the inside of his lip. 

“Sure I’m sure.” Tucker pulls away a little, frowning, his thumbs brushing gently over Wash’s cheekbones. “Look, Wash… I know how I talk about shit, but I’m not just here to get off, y’know? I care about you--like a lot. And, okay, I’ve been kinda trying to get in your pants for a while now, but what’s a little bit longer? Or a lot. However slow you wanna go, I can work with it, cause I’m here for  _ you _ , Wash.”

And that’s enough to make Wash melt. His eyes slip shut as Tucker kisses his forehead again, then his brow, his nose, both cheeks, and a quick peck to his lips. He blinks a little when Tucker pulls back, brow furrowing when he finds him just staring at him. “What are you doing?”

“Just collecting some material for my spank bank,” he says, grinning.

Wash snorts and rolls his eyes. “I didn’t need to know that.”

Tucker snickers and leans down, pressing his face into the crook of Wash’s neck. He fits like he’s supposed to be there. One of his hands moves to Wash’s chest, moving in light circles. “But we can still like… make out and shit, right?”

“I think I can handle making out,” he says, nodding. 

“Fuck yes. C’mere.” Tucker leans in and Wash meets him halfway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the moment that made me write this whole fucking fic. I needed more Wash jumping out of windows after getting remotely touchy or romantic with Tucker. So here we are. There's still a lot of fic to go, but thank you so much to everyone who has stuck around this long! All the comments and kudos just make my day!


	18. Watched All of it Fade

Technically, Wash isn’t supposed to be on patrol. With his ankle, he’s supposed to be resting and recovering, but sitting still has never come easy to him. And Dr. Grey had never said ‘no patrol’. Though that may have had something to do with the fact that she was under the impression that he had been cleared from patrol for the rest of the month.

What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, or him. Probably.

“Looks all clear here, Wash. Our rear entrance is totally covered, no one’s going to slip in here tonight.”

“Things are clear on my end too. We’ll meet at the tower to check the sensors just to be safe.”

“Okey dokey!”

Wash clicks off his radio and casts a glance over the wall. Armonia’s defenses had already been heavily fortified long before they got there. The entire city is protected by a massive wall, which was apparently initially built prior to the war as a way to keep some of the… less than friendly native species out of the city. Set in the middle of sweeping plains that give way to desert on one side and turn into a forest on the other, it’s actually fairly easy to see anyone coming from the top of the wall.

And somehow, it still doesn’t make him any less paranoid.

There’s been no attacks since the convoy. Apart from a few injuries, there hasn’t even been much difficulty on recent missions. Hell, the person who’s been hurt the worst wasn’t even because of the pirates and mercenaries. They’re been lured into a false sense of security, he just knows it. Sooner or later, that other shoe’s going to drop and it’s not going to be pretty.

He’s never been good at sitting tight and waiting for the worst to come, but it’s almost something of a relief to see the signs of frustration elsewhere. Kimball and Doyle are of course happy that their people aren’t being hurt, but he can tell that being stuck behind a desk is making the former a little stir crazy. The other day she had spent the better part of a five hour meeting trying to convince everyone to let her go out on the next supply run. As much as putting her in harm’s way is a terrible idea, and possibly just what Felix is waiting for, Wash couldn’t really blame her for it.

Lately, he’s been going on fewer and fewer missions, training taking up nearly all of his time. And the troops are improving, which is… actually quite nice to see and to be able to take responsibility for. But it does next to nothing to ease the anxiety trying to eat him alive.

Because Felix and Locus are still out there planning their next move. He knows it’s coming, he just can’t figure out what the hell it’s going to be.

His hand unconsciously strays to the top of his chest plate. At least they’re allowed to put their armor back on for wall patrol. It’s so much more comfortable slipping back into his second skin… most of the time anyway. Right now, it feels like it’s barely more than scraps keeping his hand from the sage green at his collarbone.

Shaking his head faintly, he turns and heads for the tower. Armonia is more of a hexagon than a square, so the wall was built accordingly, one tower at each point. He and Donut had started their patrol at tower one, working their way around either side to meet at tower four. It’s nice patrolling with Donut, and not just because he doesn’t try to insist that tower six or tower three should be at the other side.

He nods to Misra as he passes, the private headed the other way. There’s always at least two people walking each section of the wall and two in the tower. If it was up to Wash, they would triple that, but then… half their army would be on patrol and that’s probably not the best solution. And at least part of that is probably his paranoia talking.

Maybe he should take Grey up on her offer to talk after all. She mentions it every time he stops by the infirmary, which… may be why he hasn’t been back in a few days. He should really get around to that.

His feet guide him to the tower almost on their own. After all the times he’s walked the wall, he could practically do it in his sleep, which is… probably not a good thing.

Donut’s already there when Wash knocks at the door, chatting pleasantly with Corporal Park, who greets him with a little smile as she tugs open the heavy, steel door. “Oh there you are, Wash. I was starting to think you got lost out there.”

“Sorry. I was just… distracted,” he says, shaking his head faintly. “How are things in here? Anything on the sensors?”

“No, well… not exactly.” Donut exchanges a look with Park that makes the hair at the back of Wash’s neck stand on end.

“What does that mean?”

Park wrings her hands as she moves over to the terminals set against one wall. The towers aren’t particularly large. Like the wall, they’re built to have six sides because apparently the leaders of the Federal Army have always been obsessed with aesthetics. At least the system they have in place is a decent one.

There’s several screens along two of the walls, basic monitoring equipment keeping track of the cameras set up at strategic points outside the wall. Carolina had done a thorough check for blind spots after they had first arrived in Armonia, and to the army’s credit, she had only found two.

Most of the monitors display the grassy area outside of the nearest section of the wall. Just the same expanse of plains from several different angles. And then Wash’s brow furrows as he leans closer. “The cameras--”

“They’ve all been set to show the same footage,” Park finishes his thought nervously as she moves back to the control pannel, fingers moving over it frantically. “The other cameras are still working, but only one’s displaying. I keep fixing it, but it’s like something’s fighting me and setting it back.”

Alarm bells ring in Wash’s head as he examines the screens. “We need to get a patrol down there now.”

“Already taken care of. I jumped right in as soon as I got here and got the boys on it. I was getting all worked up and just about ready to burst, but it’s all clear out there.” Donut frowns a little at the screens.

“So, if it’s not to cover and attack what the hell is going on?” Wash glowers at the terminal, pushing the buttons with maybe a little more force than necessary. His brow furrows, a strange unpleasant feeling creeping down his spine. “It’s like something’s rerouting the commands as soon as I input them. Park, check the wiring. I’ve got a hunch.”

“Alright, sir.” She nods and works open the front panel of the terminal and half disappears inside it. There’s a few moments of her rustling around before he hears a gasp. “Sir, I found something!”

Her voice is a little muffled and not the least bit unexpected. There’s a few more sounds of scuffling around and what might be a muffled curse before Park clambers out from under the terminal, her armor a little dusty. She straightens up and holds out a small metallic box with several ports and wires sticking out of it. “This was rerouting the signals.”

Wash glances over the monitors, each displaying their own view now. “How did you know that was causing it?”

“I set up half these computers myself when I upgraded the system six months ago, sir. I know what’s supposed to be there and what isn’t,” she says, sounding firmer and more certain than Wash has ever heard her before. It’s impossible to read her expression with her helmet on as she inspects the device.

“Whoever did this must have put it in recently. This isn’t particularly complicated, the circuitry is basic at best. I don’t think this was meant to last long term. As far as I can tell it wasn’t actually stopping the other cameras from recording, it just wasn’t letting the footage display here.”

Wash nods, turning to the screens. “So we should be able to see anything that was missed by playing back the recordings?”

“As long as they haven’t been tampered with,” she says, nodding and moving to the terminal again. “It looks like they’re still there and I don’t think they’ve been touched. I’ll start reviewing them now, sir.”

Wash nods and pulls a datapad from his armor. “Thank you, Park. Hold on. Let me send a message to Carolina, I’ll have her send Epsilon over to assist. Maybe the two of you can figure out where this device came from.”

“That would be very helpful, sir.”

He taps out a message and then glances over her head at Donut, nodding toward the door. “Private Donut, a word?”

“Sure thing, Wash. I hope it’s a safeword.”

Wash waits until they’re heading down the stairs out of the tower, opting for the longer way out rather than the elevator. Better to have this conversation in a quiet place. He comes to a stop on a landing, glancing up the stairs and down before letting out a breath as he turns to Donut. “This was an inside job, I’m sure of it.”

“What was? Wait, you mean the camera thing? You think it was one of our guys? I thought the generals talked to them about messing around without thinking about the consequences,” Donut says, putting his hands on his hips.

“Apparently the lesson didn’t sink in.” He can feel his expression darkening as he pulls out his datapad again, sending another message to Carolina. “We would have noticed by now if someone from outside had snuck in, they would’ve done a lot more than just this. It has to be someone in the city.”

“Well… at least it wasn’t a bomb,” Donut says slowly, though Wash can tell from his tone that he knows that’s not saying much. “So, what do we do, Wash?”

“We wait to see if Epsilon and Park can trace the device back to whoever made it. Until then… we keep this quiet and look for more sabotages.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the railing. “I seriously doubt this is the only thing that’s been tampered with.”

He hears Donut sigh, but there’s no protest, no slightly patronizing tone telling him he’s being too paranoid. And he honestly doesn’t know if that’s just because Donut doesn’t feel like saying it, or because he thinks Wash might be right. “We should at least tell the other guys… even if Grif’s about ready to blow his top over all of this.”

Wash reaches automatically to drag a hand through his hair, only to run his fingers over the smooth surface of his helmet instead. His second skin doesn’t fit the way it used to. He’s gotten too comfortable walking around without it.

“Right… we should still tell him, shouldn’t we?”

Donut bobs his helmet and shrugs a little. “Probably.”

Wash sighs. “It’s better he hears it from us now than at a meeting later. The last thing we need to do is keep secrets from each other.”

Even if they’re keeping them from most of the people on the planet. He care more, or he’s trying to anyway, but there’s still a line, a set list of the first people he’s getting off the planet first if things go wrong. It should feel like a worse thing to realize than it does.

Maybe because ‘us against the world’ is so much better than taking it on completely alone.

* * *

Sometimes, Wash wishes his paranoia really was just that. Every now and then, being right is sort of a pain in the ass.

“Fourteen,” Kimball says, shaking her head as she paces the length of the war room. “Fourteen separate sabotage attempts. How is that even possible?”

Her voice is a little lower than it had been earlier. The atmosphere is still itchy and uncomfortable from Doyle’s passive aggressive storm out moments earlier. Wash has to talk with him about that later and he’s so far from looking forward to it. Whatever Carolina and Kimball are doing behind closed doors seems to be doing wonders for the general’s patience, and was is so grateful for that that he never ever, ever needs to know the details.

Doyle has made no such improvements. And Wash knows he should be spending more time helping the general deal with the stress, but he’s been, well… a little preoccupied recently. Apparently being Tucker’s boyfriend--partner--significant other (they really need to talk about the labels at some point) comes with a few edits to Wash’s schedule, which… have been surprisingly reasonable. At least a couple hours a week of time for themselves, and a bedtime before three in the morning, something that, with Tucker off on a mission for the last few days, Donut and Grey are now in charge of enforcing.

Needless to say, it’s been shockingly effective. Even if he’s not necessarily sleeping more, just trying to rest a few more hours has helped. Wash knows what he can handle and how much sleep he needs, but… alright, maybe more isn’t a bad thing.

Although, it hasn’t been particularly easy to sleep at all the last few days with him constantly checking his datapad for reports and messages from Caboose and Tucker. Which is what he may have been doing moments before Doyle’s storm out instead of actually paying attention. He’s kept his datapad tucked away since then.

“Those are just the ones we’ve found,” he says, poking at the holographic map of Armonia, marking the last location. “As far as I can tell, there’s no clear pattern. I doubt it’s all the same person. The devices interfering with the computers could be from the same source, but I don’t think the weapon and vehicle tampering is connected.”

Kimball nods, moving to glare at the hologram. “I don’t think it’s the Feds,” she says, voice carefully even. “At least not all of it. Some of the devices… they look like they could’ve been built out of equipment we had back at our old base. Damn it all, my people should be better--should know better.”

“Is there anyone you think might be responsible?” He keeps his tone even, forcing the suspicion out of it.

“I know a few who could definitely rig something up like this. I just don’t know why.” Letting out a breath, she shakes her head and smacks her hand against the table.

“At least they haven’t done any real harm.” Most of the sabotages have been minor things, though he’s seen first hand just how wrong they can go.

“Yet,” Kimball says darkly. “If those weapons had made it out onto a mission, who knows what could’ve happened. They’re still not taking this seriously.”

She shoots a look toward the door and tugs at her curls. “We still don’t know how to stop fighting, even with the treaty they think it’s just a matter of time before we go back to war.”

“Are they wrong?” Wash doesn’t quite mean to ask the question, but he doesn’t try to take it back.

For a long moment, Kimball says nothing. Slowly, she shakes her head. “I don’t know. I _want_ this to be permanent, I really do. I’ve always wanted peace, Wash, but… I think for all of us, that got lost somewhere while we were trying to win.”

Wash offers her a rueful smile. “I suppose just… not fighting anymore doesn’t feel particularly like a win.”

Kimball lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh as she crosses her arms over her chest. “No, no it doesn’t. It’s hard to build a rallying cry around a peace that doesn’t feel like it’s been earned.”

“I guess that’s something for you to work on then.”

She nods, sighing. “I suppose it is.”  

There’s a soft ping from his datapad, but Wash ignores it. They’re having a moment here, besides Tucker’s mostly just been sending him pictures of dicks he’s drawn with his sword. As charming as that is, it can wait.

He rounds the table to Kimball’s side. “What do you think would make it feel earned?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.” She turns to lean back against the table. “Taking down Felix would probably be a good start.”

“We will, him and Locus, we’re deal with both of them.” Wash keeps his hands on the table to stop one drifting up to his collarbone. “If I have any say in it, I’ll try to save Felix for you, well… assuming Tucker doesn’t get to him first.”

“As long as we end him, I don’t care who gets to him first.” Kimball lets out a breath, something in her eyes growing distant, haunted. “He may not have started this war, but the way he pushed it… I don’t know what it’s going to take to put things back together a miracle, or--”

There’s an echo of insistent pings from Wash’s datapad and the one that Kimball had set on the table earlier. He sighs and pulls his from his pocket. “That’s probably the team getting back from… the mission…”

The words on the screen stop him dead as a bucket of ice drops into his stomach. It’s impossible to focus, to read it through, a few words standing out starkly, branding themselves in Wash’s mind.

_Heading back... ran into Felix… Caboose injured... Grenade…_

He doesn’t think twice before sprinting out of the room, and he doesn’t need to look behind him to know Kimball’s hot on his heels.

* * *

The pelican lands half an hour after the messages come in. It’s all Wash can do to stop himself rushing forward to the ramp as soon as it comes down. There’s a small crowd assembled there that he and Kimball usher back so Dr. Grey and her medics can get onto the ship. Tucker staggers down the ramp with Song at his side, his armor splattered with blood and Wash almost feels his heart stop.

He’s still standing. It looks like Song’s just barely supporting him, her head bobbing as he probably tells her the situation--Wash is too far away to hear for sure.

“Clear the way!” Dr. Grey charges down the ramp, a gurney behind her and Wash is sure he’s about to be sick.

Caboose isn’t wearing his helmet and the left side of his head is a mess of blood and biofoam. He’s not moving and the part of his face that’s visible is so sickly pale, he almost looks gray. The medics rush him off too quick for Wash to get more of a look. He wants to follow. He has to.

But he moves to Tucker’s side first, nodding to Song as she jogs to catch up with the gurney. Tucker’s holding something blue in his hands, it takes him a moment to realize it’s the broken bits of Caboose’s helmet.

Wash doesn’t realize he’s staring until Tucker speaks. “I had to get what was left,” he says, voice weak and lifeless. “He loves this fucking thing.”

His hands are shaking and it’s impossible to tell if the blood on his armor is his or Caboose’s. He’s an inch from falling apart. So Wash grabs him by the elbow and steers him away from the still lingering crowd. It’s something of a relief that Tucker just lets him pull him along with him. There’s no way Wash could move him with the armor on when he’s not in his own.

Thankfully, no one tries to stop them as he pulls Tucker out of the hanger toward the infirmary building. He doesn’t have a particular destination in mind, so he just pushes open the first door he finds. It’s a rather large supply closet, not perfect, but at least no one’s going to check for them in here.

Pulling Tucker in, he closes the door behind them. By the time Wash turns to him again, Tucker’s sunk down against one wall, the remains of the helmet in his lap as he holds his head in his hands. There’s a strange clicking sound as Tucker’s armor knocks lightly against the wall with the shakes wracking his body.

Oh no.

Wash crouches in front of him and reaches out, unsealing Tucker’s helmet and tugging it off. There’s no tears on his face, but Wash can see the places where he’s bitten his lip to the point of bleeding and a faint hint of blood at his nose. Tugging his sleeve up over his hand, Wash reaches in, hating the way Tucker flinches for a moment before leaning into him. He gently wipes at Tucker’s lip and then his nose, holding him in place with a hand on his chin.

Tucker’s skin is clammy, hints of sweat still clinging to him. Letting go of his sleeve, Wash cups Tucker’s face and feels a sharp touch of relief when he presses into his hands and takes a shuddering breath.

There’s a desperate urge to ask what happened. Wash has seen Tucker after dozens of battles and missions. He’s never been like this, even after Sarge he was maybe a little more reserved than usual, but this…

He doesn’t have to ask.

“Felix,” Tucker barely breathes out the name. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and shakes his head. His hands come up to curl around Wash’s wrists, gripping a little too tight, but he doesn’t say a word. Whatever Tucker needs, he’ll give. “It’s my fault. I… I fucked up.”

Wash’s brow furrows a little. “What do you mean?”

Tucker takes a few more breaths and presses his face into Wash’s hands. “We were… we were packing shit up when the sensors went off. I told Caboose to get the shit loaded up while I held them off, figured it would just be pirates and shit. But fucking Felix shows up and he just… just busts out this knife and--and he gets me cornered and I can’t fucking move. I just fucking stand there like a little bitch--”

There’s a break in Tucker’s voice that’s almost a sob. Too much.

Wash doesn’t think. His hands move from Tucker’s face to his shoulders, pulling him in and keeping him there. Tucker’s arms go around him instantly, holding just too tightly. He’s still not crying, but he’s shaking, taking great gasping gulps of air like he can’t catch his breath.

“Shh, Tucker--Tucker listen to me,” Wash says, pressing his lips to Tucker’s temple, speaking against his skin. “You’re alright. Just breathe, just try to breathe. Count with me, alright? Just to ten.”

He feels Tucker nod against him. They get to ten twice before Tucker’s breathing is almost back to normal. There’s still little hitches and soft pained noises that feel like someone’s reached into his chest and started squeezing.

Wash almost tells him it’s alright, that he doesn’t have to keep going, but Tucker starts talking again, the words fumbling and tripping out of him like he can’t stop it. “Caboose--Caboose saved me. He just fucking showed up out of nowhere and--shit it was awesome for like five seconds--he fucking picked up Felix and just threw him--”

Alright, maybe Wash would’ve paid good money to see that. He’ll have to ask Tucker if he got that on his helmet cam later.

“--but I still just can’t move and Caboose was saying we had to go and he pulls me with him. But I’m… I was fucking stupid and pissed and I shoved him off and said--said that I had it. And I just--I just tripped and I was taking too long to get up and the next thing I know there’s a fucking grenade next to me and I couldn’t move and then Caboose just--he just… fuck…”

There’s another break in Tucker’s voice as he presses his face into Wash’s shoulder and works to catch his breath again. Wash runs a hand gently through Tucker’s hair, fingers catching a little on the beads. Red has joined yellow and gray there.

“Keep breathing. Count with me again.”

Tucker’s shaking less by the time they get to ten. His hands are still curled tight into Wash’s shirt, holding on like he might slip away at any moment. Right now, he never wants to let go. Silence hangs over them for several moments as he listens to Tucker’s breathing slowly get closer to normal.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” he asks softly.

“I… I dunno. Felix swiped at me a couple times. Caboose uh… he took most of the grenade blast.” Tucker’s eyes grow distant and Wash gives his hair a faint tug to pull him back to earth.

“We should get you checked out.” And Tucker doesn’t even try to make a joke there and that pushes Wash’s nerves right back to that razor sharp edge. Reluctantly, he draws back. There’s a soft, pained noise from Tucker that almost draws him right back in, but Wash forces himself to his feet and offers both hands.

Tucker grabs his forearms tightly and pulls himself up. He staggers a little and Wash wraps his arms around Tucker’s waist. The armor gives Tucker a few extra inches, so he leans down a little and presses his forehead against Wash’s. His skin is still worryingly cool and clammy, but Wash lets him stay there for a few more moments before gently pulling him out of the supply closet and leading him into the infirmary.

Caboose isn’t there. Still in surgery, Song tells him, her already soft voice barely more than a whisper as she helps him get Tucker out of his armor. Tucker’s eyes are glazed over and far away again. Wash tries a few times to snap him out of it, but it doesn’t last for more than a few seconds. Once they know Caboose is alright, Tucker will be back to normal.

Because Caboose is going to be fine. Tucker is going to be fine. Because his team wouldn’t go off on a mission without him and come back in pieces he can’t put back together. Not after he finally let himself want, finally reached out.

Just when he thought the universe might be cutting him a break.

Song finds a few cuts and a mass of bruises under Tucker’s kevlar under suit, the curtains drawn around the bed, boxing the three of them in. Wash nearly left initially, to give Tucker some privacy, but Tucker had grabbed his hand tight, eyes shockingly bright and lucid for a moment. There was no way he could leave after that.

Wash still peeks through the breaks in the curtain at any sound of movement outside. There’s a few other patients in the infirmary, though none that seem to be paying them much attention apart from Sarge, who Wash is almost sure is pretending to be asleep in the bed across the way.

“Alright, all patched up,” Song says, stepping away from Tucker. He nods at her as he moves to help Tucker pull on the scrubs she brought for him that he’s just sort of staring at.

Wash gently pulls the top over Tucker’s head, careful of the bruising, and steadies him as he pulls on the pants. Tucker leans into him like he’s the only thing keeping him from toppling over until Wash gets him settled back on the bed. As soon as he pulls away, meaning to go talk to Song, he regrets it, watching Tucker curl in on himself, knees tucked to his chest, face buried in his arms.

He grabs gently at Tucker’s shoulder and leans over to kiss the top of his head. “I’ll be right back.”

The vague hum he gets in response isn’t particularly comforting, but it’s probably the best that he’s getting right now. Hating himself, Wash leaves Tucker’s side, moving to where Song is pulling back the curtain. “How is he? Any broken ribs?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing broken, just bruised. He should probably take it easy for a while though. I think he has a mild concussion and he’s definitely in shock--um, not medical life threatening shock, you know, the uh trauma kind. Hopefully that’ll pass, but… you should probably stay with him, sir.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wash says a little more firmly than he means to.

To his surprise, that gets a smile out of Song. “Good. I’ll wheel the Colonel over in a moment too. And I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything from Grey about Captain Caboose.”

“Thank you, Song, that’s much appreciated.” He gives her a little nod before moving to sit on the edge of Tucker’s bed. They haven’t really talked about how they want to act in public, how quiet they want to keep things, but it feels right to reach out and gently take one of Tucker’s hands.

Wash manages to coax him into leaning against his side and gets him to drink a bit of water by the time Song’s dug out a chair to use to wheel Sarge over in. Sarge and Wash exchange a look and then start talking. There’s nothing in particular they stick to in terms of a topic. Sarge talks about projects he wants to get back to as soon as he’s let out and Wash tells him about the changes he’s been making to the training schedule.

Eventually Tucker chimes in, even making a few little jokes here and there. His smiles aren’t as big as they should be and his eyes aren’t quite as bright, but it’s better than the distant, worlds away stare he’d had when Sarge rolled up. Wash knows for a fact he’s not the only one pretending not to steal glances down at the door on one side of the room.

It can’t have been that long ago that Caboose was wheeled away, but it feels like they’ve been waiting for hours when the door finally opens and Dr. Grey walks in, scrubs flecked with blood. Tucker grips at him tightly as Wash shifts to sit up at attention. The doctor doesn’t seem surprised to see them there. She offers a little smile as she makes her way over.

“Captain Caboose is stable. We won’t know for sure until he wakes up, but I anticipate him making a nearly full recovery.”

Wash’s brow furrows. “Nearly?”

Dr. Grey sighs and smooths down the front of her scrubs. “Judging by the damage done, I believe there will be some permanent hearing loss on his left side. I don’t know to what extent, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he was almost entirely deaf on that side from now on.”

Tucker’s shaking again. He curls in on himself at Wash’s side, hands raking through his hair. Damn it. Wash gently rubs his back until he seems to settle a little. “Just breathe, Tucker.”

Apparently taking his advice, Tucker gulps down a few deep breaths before looking up at Dr. Grey. “When’s he gonna wake up?”

“He’s still recovering, so I expect he won’t be up until some time tomorrow, and even after that, he’s going to need several days of bed rest.” Her expression softens a little as she takes a step closer and reaches out to rest a hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’s going to be his usual self in no time.”

Tucker snorts, but it’s weak and forced. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

But he reaches up and lightly pats her hand before he presses himself tighter to Wash’s side. “How long till I get out of here?”

“Song has informed me that your injuries aren’t extensive, but I’d like to keep you overnight, just to be safe. Wash, you’re free to stay with him, if you like,” she says, a knowing smile on her face as she moves to Sarge’s wheelchair.

“When can we see him?” Tucker’s hands grip tightly at the sheets under him. “And--and I’ve gotta tell Church. Fuck, he’s gonna be so pissed--”

“Tucker,” Wash says firmly, giving him a little squeeze around the shoulders. There’s another breath and Tucker drags a hand over his face, calming himself… at least for the moment.

“He’s in the recovery suite at the moment.” Dr. Grey hesitates, suddenly glancing down when Sarge takes one of her hands. “I can let you sit with him, but not for too long. You need your rest too, Captain Tucker.”

Tucker’s out of bed in an instant, Wash reaching out to steady him. There’s a temptation to urge him back into bed, to tell him to rest. But there’s this determined look in Tucker’s eye, the life finally back in his face. And Wash can’t. So he turns to Sarge.

“Will you go with him, Sarge? I’ll… I’ll let Church and Carolina know the situation. I trust you to supervise.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Tucker says, scoffing, but it’s not much of a protest. He’s already sliding his feet into a pair of slippers Song had left at the foot of his bed and making his way toward the door.

Sarge nods, gently moving Dr. Grey’s hands so he can wheel himself along. “I’ll take care of your dirty blues. Leave it to me.”

Nodding, Wash reaches out and hesitates for a split second before letting his hand come down on the back of Sarge’s shoulder. There’s the tiniest jolt from the old soldier before he lightly pats at Wash’s hand and wheels after Tucker. He watches them go. It seems fitting. They’ve known Caboose longer. He was Tucker’s teammate long before he was Wash’s. They’re the ones that should be there now.

A hand at his elbow pulls him out of his thoughts and he glances down to find Dr. Grey offering him an understanding smile. “I’m sure Captain Caboose will be happy to see you once he wakes up, Wash.”

“I know.” He manages a tiny smile in return. “Let me know as soon as he’s up.”

“Of course.” And she pats his arm before making her way back to her office.

Now to find Epsilon. Oh god. Wash cringes internally. Well, the sooner he gets it over with, the better. There’s probably a good chance he already knows.

* * *

Epsilon does not in fact know. And he’s not particularly pleased to get the news, which… alright, Wash can’t begrudge him that. His ears are still going to be ringing for a while after that glass shattering shriek though.

There’s no hesitation before Epsilon hops out of the computer Wash finds him in and into portable storage unit, demanding to be taken down to see his team. At least he’s not in his head. With a little sigh, Wash grabs the unit and starts back the way he came. The silence that hangs between them isn’t particularly comfortable. It never is.

Epsilon’s hologram flickers briefly near his shoulder and it makes Wash twitch. He’s not in his head. It’s fine. They’re fine.

“How’s Tucker?” Epsilon’s voice is worryingly quiet.

Wash is halfway to tell him he’s fine when he actually looks at the flickering figure and the words shrivel up on his tongue as he sighs and shakes his head. “He’s blaming himself. I’ve seen him do this before, but… never this bad.”

“Yeah… yeah. You said it was Felix, right?”

“That’s what Tucker told me. It’s not surprising that he froze… not after the tower. He was fine when we saw him at the convoy, but...”

“But he had you and everyone else there,” Epsilon points out, tiny arms crossing. “He was uh… he was kinda freaked out after the whole stabbing thing.”

“I assumed he would be--”

“No, dude you don’t get it.” Epsilon makes a frustrated little staticy sound. “He wasn’t just a little scared, dude. I stayed in his head till he woke up cause he was just… fuck, he was so messed up before he passed out. I kept trying to calm him down, but he was going into shock and just--shit, it was bad, okay?”

There’s a surge of anger. Why didn’t he mention this before? Why had Tucker never come to him about this? And then Wash has to take the biggest mental step back, because… because that isn’t fair. He had never asked Epsilon--never thought to. And with everything he’s been keeping under wraps, who the hell is he to demand that from Tucker?

But the anger still simmers. Not at Tucker, not even at Epsilon. But with Felix. With this whole damn war that just won’t end.

He lets out a breath and drags a hand through his hair, trying to force away the low, simmering fury. That’s not what anyone needs right now.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says stiffly. Because that’s the only way he can talk to Epsilon. “This… I think you should talk to Tucker about this. Maybe you can get him to talk to Grey--”

“Whoa, why me? I’m not the one sucking his dick.”

And Wash comes to such a dead stop that Epsilon’s hologram drifts a little beyond him before snapping back to his shoulder. Eyes wide, he looks to the still flickering form. “You--we’re not--did Tucker say something?”

Epsilon’s gone fuzzy around the edges, the tiny shoulders strangely stiff. “Fuck. Okay, that came out bad, I didn’t mean… Goddamn it. No, he didn’t tell me shit, okay? It’s just… look, I know he’s into you and you’re…” He trails off and makes a few vague gestures with his hands, apparently trying to indicate just what Wash is.

Wash has no idea what the confusing mass of feelings in his gut is. On the one hand, that’s none of Epsilon’s goddamn business. Nothing he does is anymore, he lost that right when--

And he bites off that train of thought and lets his gaze drop to the floor. It shouldn’t matter if he knows, if anyone knows. Epsilon is… is at least Tucker’s friend, and he isn’t blind. And apparently the two of them are the farthest thing from subtle. Damn it. Alright, just… just breathe. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

“What Tucker and I do or aren’t doing behind closed doors is none of your concern, Epsilon,” he says, forcing his voice even.

Tiny hands go up in surrender. “I know, I wasn’t saying--look, I said it shitty, alright? My fucking bad!”

There’s something off about Epsilon’s voice, almost as if he’s… nervous. No, not nervous, anxious. Epsilon doesn't sound that way around other people. He doesn’t back down so easy, doesn’t flicker and flicker like he might go out at any moment.

The air is heavy and creeps into his lungs, settling uncomfortably, something turning in his stomach, threatening to make him sick. Too much unspoken, too much broken. And it occurs to Wash then that… that he hates it. He hates this sick feeling that creeps into his skin.

But he it’s the feeling he hates. Not Epsilon.

He takes a few long moments and blows out a breath full of poison. “It’s fine. I… I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh. Alright… good. Cause I didn’t.”

And he starts walking again. There’s more flickering at his shoulder. He risks a glance there and for a second, he’s half sure there’s a hint of green, a flash of purple. But it’s gone in less than an instant.

“That’s not really uh… not really the kinda shit Tucker and I talk about anyway,” Epsilon says after a few long moments. “Not the...behind closed doors stuff. I mean, we don’t talk about that shit either. But like, his issues. Talking about that stuff… it just gets weird.”

And Wash frowns a little, brow furrowing slightly. “I thought the two of you patched things up?”

“Well, yeah, but we never even talked about that shit before. Wash, c’mon, Tucker and I are… we’re buddies, y’know? You tell your buddy about girls--or guys you’re into,” he adds so quickly Wash almost laughs. “And what beer’s the best, or like… I don’t know, football. That stuff, that’s what buddies do. We don’t talk about… emotional shit.”

“I see.” It sort of makes sense. That certainly explains the bits of the ‘apology’ that Wash had seen pass between them ages ago. “But… you don’t think talking to Tucker about this would help?”

“I don’t know, man. Maybe?” Epsilon shrugs his tiny shoulders and throws up his hands. “Why can’t you just talk to him about it? You’re… kind of good at talking him through this stuff.”

“Because then I would have to tell him you told me and violated his trust.”

Epsilon’s form flickers out for a second and then back. For a few long moments, Wash simply walks in silence. They’re almost to the infirmary by the time he finally speaks again. “You think that’d really bother him?”

Wash shrugs. “It might.”

“But I only told you--”

“And you think there isn’t a reason Tucker hasn’t already told me himself?” That stops Epsilon short and Wash sighs. “Tucker hasn’t told anyone as far as I know. Epsilon, you’re the only one who really knows what he felt back at the radio tower. I can try to talk to him based on what I know, but you were actually in Tucker’s head when it happened, you know better than anyone else what he’s dealing with.”

Epsilon lets out a sigh of static. “You’re a real asshole sometimes, Wash. Fine--fine, fine, fine! I’ll try to fucking talk to him, but if he gets pissed at me, I’m blaming you!”

“That seems fair,” Wash says, nodding as he pushes open the infirmary doors.

He walks Epsilon in, finding Tucker back in his bed. There’s still a slightly dazed look on his face as Wash presses the storage unit into his hands, but he manages a little smile when Wash kisses his temple. “Any change?”

Tucker shakes his head. “Nah, Caboose is still out. Grey figures it’s still gonna be a while till he’s up. Church, you wanna go see him? Grey said I could take you down there,” he says, turning his attention to Epsilon’s hologram, now hovering over Tucker’s lap.

The tiny helmet turns to point up at Wash for a moment before he looks back to Tucker, nodding. “Yeah, lets go see him. And uh… there’s something I wanted to talk to you about--not right this second, but maybe after.”

Tucker blinks, brow furrowing. “Uh sure, dude.”

“I’ll check in on you later.” Wash gently grips Tucker’s shoulder and leaves them to it. He has no idea how that talk’s possibly going to go, but it’s one they should probably have on their own.

As he steps out the door, he can’t help looking back, watching as Tucker heads toward the other door, Epsilon hovering along at his shoulder. Tucker’s laughing at something Epsilon said, and Wash feels something warm slowly bloom in his chest. There’s always going to be something broken between him and Epsilon, but there doesn’t have to be with Epsilon and Tucker.

Wash only wishes he was a big enough person not to feel the slightest bit jealous of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I'm so blown away by the response to the last chapter. There's a few big moments in this fic that were my inspiration to write the whole thing, and that was one of them. Thank you so much to everyone for commenting and leaving kudos! I feel a little bad about this chapter, hurting Caboose is always just mean, but I hope you guys like it!


	19. Falling Down Like Pieces Into Place

As Dr. Grey had expected, Caboose wakes up the next day. He doesn’t stay up for long. By the time Wash has rushed down to the infirmary, he’s already asleep again. Dr. Grey gives his shoulder a consoling pat and offers him a chair next to the bed that Caboose has been moved to. It’s on the other side of Tucker’s, so Wash has no problem with staying there for the foreseeable future. 

He must doze off at some point, soft voices slowly rousing him. Tucker’s sitting on the edge of Caboose’s bed and a massive hand is holding Wash’s where it rests on Caboose’s sheets. 

“But Tucker, I do  _ not _ like the hospital. Everything is itchy. My head is itchy inside. I want to go back to base,” Caboose is saying, his voice soft, slightly weaker than Wash can ever remember hearing it before.

“I know, dude. I don’t like it here either, but we’re stuck till Grey lets us out. You don’t wanna piss her off, do you?”

“I do not want to upset the scary doctor lady. Please don’t let her sing to me.”

There’s a huff that means Tucker’s probably rolling his eyes. “She’s not going to torture you, dumbass. I won’t let anyone fuck with you, okay?”

Slowly blinking himself awake, Wash sits up, dragging his free hand over his face. He hears Caboose suck in a little gasp. “Agent Washington, you’re awake. Good morning.”

It doesn’t sound right hearing Caboose so subdued. He looks out of it, eyes a little glassy, bandages still covering most of the left side of his head, resting back on the pillows like he can’t even hold himself up. Wash takes a breath and forces a smile into place. “Good morning Caboose. How are you feeling?”

“Itchy. Everything is very quiet and far away. I don’t like it.” Caboose screw up his face and shifts a little. He doesn’t even have enough energy to squirm. Something in Wash’s gut turns painfully. But then, Caboose turns his head, lips moving soundlessly for a moment before he seems to relax.

Wash blinks, glancing at Tucker, silent question on his face. “He’s got Church in his head,” Tucker says a little too casually. Uh oh. “He’s helping with the hearing thing and monitoring his pain meds.”

That makes sense, and explains why there’s no sign of Epsilon’s hologram. Nodding, Wash leans back in his chair, getting a little more comfortable. “Has Dr. Grey checked his hearing yet?”

“Yeah, she did before.” Tucker’s expression darkens a little. “It’s pretty fucked on that side.”

He lets out a breath and looks back to Caboose. Pretty fucked isn’t exactly scientific, but he has a fairly good idea what Tucker means. It’s to be expected. The helmets aren’t meant to withstand a grenade up quite that close… particularly his shoddy attempts at reconstructing one. There’s a twinge of guilt there. 

They talk for a little while longer, Caboose frequently pausing to talk to Church in his head when frustration creeps over him. “I want my ears back,” Caboose says, grimacing. “Everything sounds like it’s underwater and I don’t want to meet mermen.”

“I know, buddy.” Wash gently pats his hand. “Some of the hearing loss should go away on it’s own and we can get you a hearing aid to help with the rest.”

That seems to perk Caboose up a little. “Like Donut’s?”

Wash blinks. What? Donut has a hearing aid? He looks to Tucker, who’s already nodding. “Yeah, I bet Sarge can rig up something for you just like his.”

“Since when does Donut have a hearing aid?” Did he miss something? It certainly feels that way. 

Tucker cocks an eyebrow at him, looking at him like he’s stupid. And in the weirdest way, that’s almost a relief. There’s so much life back in Tucker’s face, the dazed look from the day before finally gone. “Uh, since forever, dude. He got it when… oh shit, right, you weren’t there for that. Back in Blood Gulch Tex stuck a grenade to his head. I think he’s almost totally deaf on one side. Sarge made him this cool hearing aid thing though.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Wash holds up a hand to stop him. “Tex stuck a grenade to his head?”

“Yeah.”

“And he survived that?”

“The dude’s almost as much of a cockroach as you, Wash,” Tucker says, laughing. 

Maybe that shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. Honestly, after all the tidbits of stories he’s heard about the things the Reds and Blues have managed to survive, he knows they’re a lot tougher than they seem. They’re so much stronger, so much more than they think they are, than they were ever given credit for. 

Eventually, Emily comes over and shoos Wash and Tucker toward the door so Caboose can get some sleep. Wash gives Caboose’s hand one last squeeze before letting go. He walks in silence at Tucker’s side until they’re about halfway back to base. 

“How does he seem to you?” Wash keeps his voice low, the night air seeming strangely heavy around them. “You’ve known him longer.”

Tucker shrugs. “I dunno. I think he’s pissed about not being able to hear right. Can’t really blame him for that. It’s gotta fucking suck.” 

He kicks a pebble and sends it flying. Very slowly, Wash reaches out, fingers lightly brushing Tucker’s arm, running down toward his hand in his pocket. After a moment, there’s a little sigh and Tucker pulls his hand out to link their fingers together. 

“I don’t think he blames you,” Wash says, almost tentatively.

“I know he doesn’t. But I fucking do.” Tucker’s words are biting, but not at him, so Wash gives his hand a little squeeze. “I should’ve… fuck, I dunno… not been such a fucking loser. I was supposed to have his back out there and… god, it just pisses me off.”

Wash thinks for a moment. He has to pick his words carefully here. Tucker’s hand is still in his, so that’s probably a good sign at least. “From what it sounds like… I don’t know if there’s much you could have done differently.”

“You weren’t there, Wash.” And fuck if that doesn’t feel like a knife in his gut. Tucker doesn’t sound as though he’s blaming him either. It’s almost casual, just a light reminder, but the sting lingers. 

He doesn’t mean it that way, so Wash gives himself a shake. It’s not about him. It’s about his team. “I know. But I don’t know that things would’ve gone any different if I had been there. Tucker… you said you froze when you saw Felix?”

“Yeah… I guess.” Tucker’s brow furrows and he glances up at the sky. “I think it was more… the knife. Cause I mean, I was fine when we were driving here, but… fuck when he busted out the knife I just…”

Wash squeezes his hand, watching Tucker out of the corner of his eye. “It’s alright you know. That you froze. It happens, Tucker. What happened to you at the radio tower--you almost died. It only makes sense that you would still be traumatized.”

Tucker makes a face. “That’s so fucking lame though. One little stab and now I can’t even look at knives? That’s some serious bullshit.”

Something about his tone just makes Wash laugh. He doesn’t mean to, but just… of  _ course _ that’s how Tucker reacts to being traumatized. Of course he’s irritated and disgruntled and frustrated with himself. 

He finds Tucker staring at him and quickly shakes his head, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. But I agree with you… it is kind of bullshit, but that’s how trauma works, Tucker. You can’t predict what’s going to trigger you or how you’ll react when it does.”

“I guess.” Tucker huffs and kicks another pebble. 

Wash frowns. For a few long moments, they walk together, the silence drifting back. 

“I can’t drive on my own,” he says after a few long moments. “I don’t like driving at all honestly. It’s easier when there’s someone else there.”

“Okay… and you’re telling me this, why?”

“I was in a car accident. Several actually,” Wash says, with a slight bob of his head. “A few were before I joined up, but the worst one was right after I got my license. I couldn’t even sit behind the wheel for a year without almost breaking down.”

Tucker lets out a low whistle. “Shit, dude. I guess cars have always hated you.”

And Wash finds himself laughing again, ducking his head toward his chest as he nods. “I can’t argue with you there. It never seems to work out for me--but the point is, trauma isn’t something you can just get past or choose to shut off, and it doesn’t play nice. All you can do is try to find a way to move forward and deal with it.”

“Church said I should talk to Grey.” There’s a little frown on Tucker’s face. “He was spouting off all this psychological bullshit and giving me so much crap for not talking to her about it sooner. Like I’m just gonna wander into her office and say ‘hey Grey, I’m a total wuss who can’t cut a fucking steak without shaking’. Yeah fucking right.”

Wash turns to look at him sharply. “It’s not really that bad, is it?”

Tucker grimaces, eyes on the ground as he shrugs. “No… not usually. Some days suck more than others. And I thought… I thought I was doing better with it until now.”

“Tucker--”

“If you’re gonna give me some pitying crap, I don’t wanna hear it, dude. Or that I should talk to Grey, cause I know for damn sure you’re not talking to her either.”

And Tucker’s got him there. It’s not that he hasn’t been meaning to go down and talk to her, but… other things just keep getting in the way. It doesn’t help that he’s been letting them, and looking for chances to stay busy as much as possible. 

Pulling at Tucker’s hand, he brings both of them to a stop and moves so they’re facing each other. “How about we make a deal? We both start going to see Emily. I’ll set up appointments tomorrow.”

Tucker makes a face, but after a moment, he nods. “Yeah… yeah okay. But you have to go first. And if you chicken out, I’m not going either.”

“That’s fair. And if you chicken out anyway, you’re giving the remedial hand to hand combat lessons.”

“Dude, that’s just mean. But fine, deal.”

“Shake on it?” 

Tucker grins and a little spark of electricity goes up Wash’s arm. “I’d rather kiss on it.” 

He leans in and Wash meets him halfway. 

* * *

Caboose and Sarge get released from the infirmary on the same day. Wash is pretty sure Sarge could’ve been cleared to go for a few weeks now, but… something else has been keeping him hanging around. 

“It’s about time I got back to base,” Sarge says, as Wash wheels him out of the infirmary, Caboose and Tucker following along behind them. “Bet you dirty Blues let the place go to pieces without me.”

“I’m sure things will be ship shape in no time with you back, Sarge.” Not that much has really changed while he was in the infirmary, well… except for the Reds all stealthily moving down to the ground floor. Wash is fairly sure none of them have mentioned it to Sarge. It’s not something anyone wants to draw attention to. 

Sarge’s new leg is still a work in progress, and production on it has slowed down quite a bit since Dr. Grey stopped letting him work on it in the infirmary. In her defense, it did almost catch on fire about four times before she finally put a stop to that. But the old soldier seems confident that he’ll get it finished within the week… as soon as he finishes Caboose’s hearing aid. He had insisted on that, something that had made a lump form in Wash’s throat. 

Chatter goes on pleasantly enough as they make their way to Friendship Mountain. The Reds are all out by the ramp when they come around the corner. Simmons appears to be arguing with Lopez of all people, gesturing emphatically at the ramp. Grif’s seated at the top of the steps, bag of chips in hand, looking as though he could have just been sitting there by coincidence. For some reason, Donut and Carolina are split off from the others, expressions strangely serious, though as soon as Carolina looks up and sees them coming, she taps Donut’s shoulder and both of them brighten up considerably. 

Donut turns on the spot and throws up his arms. “Welcome home guys! Boy do we have a lot to catch up on, I can’t wait to fill you up!”

“Fill you  _ in _ , Donut,” Grif says, rolling his eyes. 

“That too!”

“Forget it. Just get in here, Sarge.” Grif rises and heads down the steps. He pushes past Simmons and gently nudges Wash aside to take the handles of Sarge’s wheelchair. There’s a look that passes between them and for a second, everything is too quiet. 

Wash is suddenly struck by the fact that he’s still not sure if Grif ever actually went to see Sarge in the infirmary. After the one conversation they’d had on the topic, Wash had decided that was a Red Team matter that he didn’t need to get involved with. There’s a  _ look _ that passes between them, the sort of look that demands emphasis even just in his head. Sarge gives the slightest of nods and Grif’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch. 

Grif wheels Sarge over to the ramp. Wash is sure that everyone’s holding their breath. Well, everyone except Caboose, who bounds after them. “Colonel Sergeant, do you like your ramp? I wanted to paint it red, but Simmons would not let me.”

Simmons sputters and throws his arms up in the air. “You wanted to use wood paint! You can’t use wood paint on metal, it wouldn’t work!”

“I dunno, Simmons. Sounds like you just didn’t want to go the extra mile.” Grif shakes his head despairingly. “For shame, Simmons, for shame.”

“You didn’t want to paint it either!” It always makes Wash feel a little better that he’s not the only one around that can reach that earsplitting screech. 

“Caboose,” Sarge says, cutting into the bickering. For a second, silence falls again. “It looks damn near perfect. Thank you, son.”

And he motions Caboose closer and pats his arm. Wash is pretty sure there’s a sniffle from Donut before Sarge clears his throat. 

“Now let’s stop this bellyaching and get inside. Need to see what a mess you’ve made of the place without me around. Put your back into it, Grif.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Out of the hospital five seconds and you’re already riding my ass,” he mutters, shaking his head, but he rolls Sarge up the ramp and into the building. Caboose trots along after them, Simmons and Lopez not far behind. 

Donut lingers outside for a moment before Carolina waves him off. With a little nod, he heads inside. She looks to Wash and he feels something cold creep into his veins. Her arms are crossed over her chest and there’s something a little too hard about the set of her jaw. Something’s wrong. 

Tucker tugs at the sleeve of his slightly too big, maroon sweater. Concern flits over his face until Wash shakes his head. “I’ll be inside in just a second, you go ahead.”

It looks like Tucker wants to protest, but then he lets out a breath and stands on tip toe to press a kiss to Wash’s cheek. “You better, dude.”

Giving his arm a squeeze, Tucker pulls away. He passes Carolina on the way in, his hand catching hers ever so briefly before he disappears inside the front door. There’s a silent beat before Carolina descends the steps, her expression a little too guarded. 

“What’s wrong?” Wash is already running over the worst possibilities in his head. All of the Reds and Blues are okay, and he’s sure she would’ve said something already if someone was dead, and he definitely would’ve heard by now if something happened to Kimball or Doyle. Maybe it’s bad news about their supply lines… but why would she be talking to Donut about that?

She pulls something from the pocket of her too large orange hoodie. “Donut was in your room--he said you told him there was something in there for him, but he found these.”

Wash’s brow furrows as he takes the box. The cover says matches, but he’s never heard matches clink around so metallically. He slides it open and his eyes widen a little. “Bullets? Wait, he said he found these in my room?”

“So they’re not yours?”

“Or course not.” Frowning, he plucks one of the bullets out of the box, examining it a little more closely. “These look like sniper rounds. I’ve never used this kind of bullet in my life.”

Carolina nods, and for a split second, Wash thinks there’s a tiny hint of relief on her face, but it’s gone as soon as it appears. “That’s what I said too. So you’ve never seen these before?”

“Not that I can remember. Maybe they belonged to whoever had my room last?” But that doesn’t sound right even as he says it. He’s pretty sure the last time this building was occupied was before the war began. And if that was the case, the box should be dusty. The bullets look shiny and new. 

“I doubt it.” Carolina’s eyes darken and flit around the area.

“What are you thinking, boss?” 

“I’m thinking we shouldn’t talk about this out in the open.” She jerks her head back at the building. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

He hands the box back and follows her inside. They bypass the celebration happening in the rec room and head into Carolina’s new room. She’s acquired a poster and one of her walls is covered in glow in the dark star stickers. Wash is so going to tease her about that later. 

Carolina sits on the end of her bed and Wash moves to lean against a chest of drawers, all of which are probably empty. He’s not entirely surprised when there’s a knock at the door a moment later and then Tucker lets himself in. “Alright, what the fuck is going on.”

Wash glances to Carolina, who pulls out the box and tosses it to him. “Donut found these in Wash’s room.”

Tucker jolts when he looks inside. “Since when do you keep bullets under your pillow, dude?”

“They aren’t mine. I’ve never seen that box before,” he says, shaking his head. 

“I think someone planted them there.” Carolina’s voice is low, deadly serious. “The only thing I can’t figure out is why.”

“They could be trying to frame me for something. I have no idea what, though.” Wash tips his head back, thinking. There haven’t been any encounters with with snipers out on missions in a while, and there haven’t been any major incidents in an almost suspiciously long time. 

“Locus.” Tucker’s quiet growl jars Wash out of his thoughts. 

“What?”

Tucker scowls at the box like it personally insulted him and tosses it back onto Carolina’s bed. “He’s a sniper, right? This is just the kind of creepy shit that fucker would pull. Sneak into the city invisible just to leave you a little present.” 

“That’s an awfully big risk for him to take…” But Carolina doesn’t sound like she’s dismissing it, a touch of concern creeping into her voice as she looks at Wash. “Do you think he would do something like that?”

There’s a new sense of dread creeping down Wash’s spine as he looks to the box. Locus could have been in his room, going through his things. He could have been a room away from Tucker and Caboose, from his team, and Wash never had a clue. His stomach turns as he shakes his head. “I can honestly say I have no idea what Locus is capable of… but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Something smacks against the wall and Wash almost jumps as he looks around to find Tucker cursing and shaking out his hand. “That fucking asshole. What the hell is his problem with you?”

Wash catches himself before his hands stray to the collar of his shirt. He should tell them. Tucker of all people should know. As much as Wash wants it off, wants the mark burned away from his skin, the connection is there. Tucker should know just what he’s attaching himself to. He has a right to know, but… but goddamn it, they finally worked  _ them _ out. 

They’re an us now. It’s been a week. One fucking week. And one confession could throw all that away and… and Wash isn’t ready to let it go. Not yet. He’ll tell them. He will.

But not now. 

“He wants to prove he’s the better soldier,” Wash says, hating himself. “It’s some weird… competition between the two of us that he’s concocted. I think, initially, he wanted to sway me to their side, but when it became clear that wouldn’t happen, he… he became obsessed with proving he was better.”

It’s… not entirely untrue. But the words are bitter on his tongue. As soon as he says it, he wants to snatch it back, to tell the truth. Carolina and Tucker both deserve that much and more from him, but god… he just wants his one good thing. 

He takes a breath and faintly shakes his head as his eyes drink back to the bullets. “I don’t know if he’d take such a risk though… not without doing something else. If he snuck into the city, there must have been something else he did.”

The other two nod, Carolina rubbing at her jaw thoughtfully. “I’ll let Kimball know, but… we should look into this quietly.”

Tucker jolts a little at that. “Uh, shouldn’t we like… tell people if the mercs are sneaking in here? That’s kind of a big fucking deal.”

Carolina nods again. “It is, but we don’t know for sure who left the box here, and we don’t want to cause panic. Armonia is safe--or the closest thing to safe we have right now,” she says quickly, when it looks like Tucker’s going to argue again. “Finding another haven large enough for both armies isn’t going to be easy, and if it isn’t the mercenaries, we don’t want to cause a panic over nothing.”

“But what if it’s not nothing?” Tucker crosses his arms over his chest. “What if this is them just rubbing it in? That’s just like Felix, sneaking in here just to prove he can whenever he fucking wants.”

Wash can’t stop himself from wincing. “That does sound like him. I think for now… we should keep this quiet and look for anything else they could have planted here and redouble our efforts looking into the sabotages. But the second we’re certain it’s them, we’ll alert everyone. Until then… it may not be a bad idea for scouting parties to start looking for a new shelter…”

After a few long moments, the other two both nod, though Tucker still doesn’t look particularly happy about it. “Fine, but you’re staying in my room from now on.”

The way he says it leaves no room for argument and Wash does his best to ignore the cocked eyebrow and smirk on Carolina’s face. Frowning a little, Wash tips his head to one side. “Tucker, if it was Locus--”

“Then you’re not gonna be alone if he tries this shit again,” Tucker says, sharply, eyes narrowing. 

After a moment, Wash’s shoulders slump as he nods. “Alright. I can move my things into your room tonight.”

“Good.” Tucker looks a little too pleased about that. “Now lets go see if the Reds already finished all the good booze.”

There’s plenty still hanging in the air as he and Carolina follow Tucker out to the party, which has definitely gotten louder and drunker all around, but that can wait at least for the moment. Doyle and Kimball will have to be informed and finding somewhere new to house so many people is going to be a nightmare. But that’s tomorrow’s battle, and Wash is alright waiting until then to confront it.

* * *

The generals aren’t exactly happy with the news, which isn’t a surprise. And it only gets worse when Carolina discovers more bullets and a sniper scope in her room the next day. It shouldn’t, but that lifts a tiny bit of weight off Wash’s shoulders. If both of them are being targeted, for whatever reason, it’s probably not just Locus. 

That doesn’t stop the way his hand keeps absently pressing to the deep green mark at his collarbone again and again. He doesn’t want to think about it.To wonder if Locus is somewhere staring at the gray handprint on his arm. 

At least Wash is pretty sure that only happens in cheesy romance novels. Though a strange part of him wants Locus staring, wants him staying up at night wondering, going over what he’d done wrong again and again. Maybe that’s his vindictive streak talking, but it makes him feel better. Locus probably can’t even feel guilt, he thinks bitterly. That’s probably been beyond the mercenary for ages. Wash can’t imagine how he manages to sleep at night otherwise. 

It’s not something he wants to dwell on, but thankfully there’s plenty of other things to keep him occupied. 

Unity day is creeping ever closer. Wash is half sure Donut must have found someway to clone himself, because he’s everywhere at once lately, organizing the post speech banquet, figuring out how to set up the stage properly, putting every little piece together from the catering to the security. He’s doing all that… and still managing to find time to talk Caboose about his hearing loss. 

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Wash hears Donut telling Caboose when he passes them sitting together working on a large banner. 

“Yes, but I would like the ringing to stop, please. Church makes it go away when he’s here, but when he is not, it is always there and I do not like it. There are too many tiny bells in my head.”

Donut pats his knee gently. “Oh I know what you mean, I had that for months after my injury, it’s just the worst. Sarge’s hearing aid helped with that, and eventually it went away.”

“Will my bells go away? It always sounds like I am late for school and I do not want to miss third period. That’s when we have art class,” Caboose says, frowning as he presses his hand to his ear. 

“Hmm, I’m not sure. It might, but even if it doesn’t, I know plenty of tricks to help make that better. I used to like listening to music to drown it out. Here, let’s see if we can find something you like--”

Wash watches for a few moments as Donut pulls out a datapad and a set of headphones and starts scrolling through the screen, leaving when they both start humming along to ‘Jingle Bells’ of all things. Probably best to just leave them to it… though he makes a mental note to ask Donut later about helping train Caboose when he’s cleared for it again. Wash has gone into plenty of fights with some kind of handicap, but this isn’t exactly his area of expertise.

Training itself has slowed almost to a stop at this point. There’s too much to do, everyone being pulled in a dozen different directions. After the fourth session where less than half his trainees actually showed up, he decided that it might be better to just give people a pass until after Unity Day. 

But there’s a few people who never want to take a break.

“I think I’m finally beginning to get it.” Doyle’s huffing and puffing, but he’s not wrong. Both generals have made incredible progress. In a few more weeks, he’s pretty sure Carolina’s going to have Kimball fighting like a Freelancer. Even Doyle’s managed to impress him a few times. 

Wash offers a hand to pull him to his feet. “You’ve almost got that move down. You just need to pay a little more attention to your footwork.”

“Agreed.” The general nods as he grips Wash’s hand and pulls himself up. “I just hope that I should be able to do this much in an actual combat scenario.”

“Hopefully you won’t end up in one of those.” But Wash knows that’s a faint hope. And he remembers the last time he was around to see Doyle deal with having a gun pointed at him. “Maybe we should do a little more stress training? Some simulations to see how you react under pressure?”

“Goodness. Well… I suppose that would be the best way to see if I’ve improved at all,” Doyle says slowly, nervously plucking at the end of his mustache. “I dare say I don’t particularly relish the thought, but if you think it’s best…”

Wash is pretty sure Doyle’s hoping for him to change his mind here, but he nods. “I don’t expect you to ever end up on the front lines in a fight, Doyle, but you need to know how to conduct yourself in stressful situations.”

There’s a great sigh, and the general’s shoulders slump a little. “Quite right, Agent Washington. I can’t go on fainting any time there’s so much as a threat directed my way. It’s just… it’s not the threat of danger that frightens me…”

Brow furrowing, Wash cocks his head to one side. “It’s not?”

“No, not really. I’ve almost grown used to danger in a way. I simply have no tolerance for pain.” He lets out a mirthless chuckle as he shakes his head. “It seems so unfair, I fear the thing that I send my people to face day in and day out. I ought to be better about it--braver. That I can’t even think of enduring what I order my people to face is disgraceful.”

“I… don’t know if I’d say that,” Wash says slowly. “I don’t think it’s your pain tolerance that’s the problem. I think it’s a lack of experience and… a lack of knowledge. And being afraid of pain isn’t a bad thing, Doyle. Hell, that’s probably helped keep you alive this long.”

“I suppose, though… my life isn’t much good if I’m just sitting around not doing anything with it.” 

And that’s worrying in a strange number of ways that Wash is in no way equipped to deal with. This army needs a smaller, dedicated army of therapists on hand at all times. 

But then Doyle seems to give himself a little shake as he turns to look at Wash again, a spark of determination in his eyes. “Enough of this, shall we go again?”

Nodding, Wash moves himself into a defensive stance and they begin from the top. They don’t stop for nearly another hour and a half until Doyle is struggling to stand back up, leaning heavily on  stack of mats. It’s a far cry from the first few training sessions where Doyle could barely make it through a basic workout. He’s got a long way to go, but in just a few short weeks, he’s already come so far. 

Wash offers him an arm to lean on as he helps steady him. “That last one was good, I think you’ve really got it.”

“Ah, why thank you, Wash,” Doyle says, between huffs and puffs as he works to catch his breath. “I believe it’s finally starting to sink in. Perhaps in a month’s time I’ll be able to go toe to toe with Locus himself.”

“Well… we can certainly hope.” Wash lightly pats his shoulder as Doyle gets his footing back. 

They split off when they hit the showers. Wash takes his time for once and then moves to the little locker he’s claimed for himself. He’s steadily made it more and more his own, stickers and pictures (you can still get photos developed, who knew?) stuck inside the door. His eyes linger on a photo of Tucker making a face at him before he carefully shuts the door. 

“Agent Washington?” Doyle’s voice calls him over from the end of the room. His hands fidget, and Wash gets the distinct impression that if Doyle had a handkerchief with him, his is where he would be nervously toying with it. “Would you mind escorting me to the dining hall?”

“Not at all. I was about to head there anyway.” 

The general brightens up noticeably and follows Wash out of the building, falling into step at his side. “You know,” Wash says slowly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in the mess hall before…”

Doyle ducks his head in a sheepish nod. “Ah yes. I uh, haven’t managed to make my way there as of yet. I had always eaten in my office before, but well… it was suggested that I make more of an effort to engage with my people on a more personal level. Someone also pointed out that hiding away in my office was no way to make friends and… I could do with a few more of those.”

This is probably the part where Wash should reassure Doyle that they’re friends, or offer to be his friend. He honestly isn’t quite sure where they are there. They’re certainly closer than just coworkers. But he’s way too emotionally stunted for that. 

So he just reaches over and gently squeezes Doyle’s shoulder. “I’m sure your people will appreciate the thought. You’ve come a long way, Doyle. I think they’re starting to see that.”

“I do hope so, though I know I still have a long way to go. And miles to go before I sleep, as it were.”

And… Wash has no idea what to say to that. He’s fairly sure Doyle’s quoting something, but honestly, literature has never been Wash’s specialty, he’s always been better at math. “Right.”

They make casual conversation from there about the plans for Unity Day until they reach the mell hall and Wash moves to hold the door open for Doyle, who seems rather surprised, looking around the place as he steps inside with something like wonder in his eyes. 

“So this is the dining area. Charming.”

Wash blinks at him, one eyebrow rising. “You’ve never been in here before?”

“Ah no. I er--I have been meaning to come by for quite some time. I’ve heard nothing but good things. Uh… honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure where it was. But now I know. Thank you very much, Agent Washington. So… where do we place our orders?” he asks, looking around expectantly, as if for a waiter. 

Oh good lord. With a little sigh, Wash guides Doyle over to the line, where several soldiers are already standing. Doyle seems enchanted and baffled by the whole thing as they go down the line and shovel food onto their trays. “General, what… what exactly did you do before this?”

“Oh, I would always have Park or Sinclair have food sent up to me,” Doyle says, inspecting a burger before setting it on his tray, looking confused and delighted by the prospect. “This is so charming. And you all do this every day?”

“For every meal.”

“Remarkable! I mean, I knew that this whole business was in place, but ah… the Federal Army used to run things a bit differently. Or, we did until supplies began to run thin. My predecessor used to have catered meetings for the officers, though I’ve since been told that his doing so did not exactly inspire… solidarity with the troops, so to speak.”

Wash nods, biting back a few less than kind remarks. “I can imagine.”

“But!” And Doyle pauses dramatically a they leave the line, trays in hand. “I am to change all that. My men should know that they are my equals. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I’m going to go… mingle.”

The general suddenly looks terrified at the prospect, face going a little pale as he looks over the hall. Wash is about ready to take pity on him and invite him over to the table where he can already hear Grif and Simmons bickering about something. But then Doyle squares his shoulders and marches into the fray. Wash watches for a second until he sees Doyle take a spot at a table that seems to mostly be Feds, although he’s fairly sure that’s Andersmith next to him, towering over the others at the table. 

It shouldn’t mean much, something as simple as Doyle finally spending a bit more time out of his office, but this feels like a step forward. And honestly, Wash will take whatever little improvements they can get. So with a little smile on his face, he makes his way over to his usual table,dropping into the spot Tucker’s been saving for him. 

Tucker looks over him, one eyebrow rising. “What’s with the smile?”

“Nothing. Just… it’s been a good day.” That seems to be enough of an answer and then Tucker’s arms are around his shoulders and he’s sure he could do with a lot more days like this one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, huge thanks to everyone leaving kudos and comments! I know I say it a lot, but it really does mean so much to get such a nice response. So we're almost to the halfway point here. I've been debating whether or not to break this story into parts, and I've finally decided where and how to split it and part one should be wrapping up soon, so look forward to that~


	20. Fear Comes Creeping In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood and major injuries

Technically, Wash isn’t supposed to be there for the big speech, Carolina either. They’re both supposed to be up on the wall patrolling, because someone still has to during all the festivities. But Carolina had caught his elbow that morning and flashed him a little smile.

“We’re doing security for the speech instead.”

His eyebrows had shot up. “And why are we doing that? I thought we couldn’t change shifts.”

It’s all been scheduled and arranged down to the last detail for a week and a half now. Wash is pretty sure Donut was about ready to murder Bitters the other day when he asked if they could push back the start of the speech five minutes so he would have time for a smoke break.

“I pulled a few strings, Donut owes me. Green and Park offered to switch, neither of them really like crowds anyway. Everyone wins.”

Wash had bit back a comment about how he didn’t particularly care for crowds either, nodding instead. The more he thinks about it as the day goes on, the more alright he is with the situation. It’s not that he thinks the security team before was bad, though… Park and Green were arguably the weakest links there--at least in terms of combat ability. Andersmith and Schooner are probably the top fighters in their respect armies, so they were obvious choices. Park and Green were largely on security detail because it seemed as though they at least ought to be close to their generals.

But if they don’t mind wall patrol, Wash won’t protest. Much anyway.

The whole celebration starts with a big parade through the city, which works out, because there’s apparently a few last minute preparations Donut wants made to the stage.

“I really don’t see how--”

“Wash, please, if all the confetti cannons don’t erupt and shower all of us with white, hot, patriotic pride, then what’s even the point?” And Donut looks so put out about it, he can’t really find a way to argue.

“Alright, I’ll go make sure the timers are all set,” he says, giving Donut’s shoulder a little squeeze as he moves past him toward the stage.

It’s actually pretty impressive that Donut managed to set all this up in a month. The stage is raised up several feet, overlooking rows and rows of chairs. It’s all set up in Armonia’s biggest park, which has been shockingly well maintained despite the whole war thing. He really needs to talk to Doyle later about sorting out certain priorities. Several feet away from the chairs and the stage is a large tented off area for the ‘reception’ as Donut keeps calling it. They’ve been working on most of the preparations from in there so far. It’s a decent spot, but Wash has no idea how everyone’s supposed to fit in there.

He nods to a few cadets as he passes. Misra and Wexler wave from where they’re setting up an ice sculpture and Ortega offers a shy smile from his spot putting up the last few streamers. Wash is so busy glancing around, he nearly walks straight into Sinclair as he leaves the tent.

“Sorry about that, Sinclair. Didn’t see you there.”

“Agent Washington?” She looks up at him, confusion flitting across her face. “I thought you had wall patrol during the ceremony?”

“Carolina switched things this morning. I’m on security during the big speech. It was a last minute thing,” he says, with a little shrug.

“I see.” She smiles, but it looks a little strained, her eyes quickly flicking back to the datapad in her hands. “No one told me. I specifically asked General Doyle to tell me about all shift changes…”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got Park and Green up on the wall covering things. It should be alright.” Although, now that he’s said it, he’s suddenly far less sure of that himself. They aren’t the only people on the wall, of course, but if the mercs were going to strike, now would be the ideal time.

It’s too late to change things back now. So he offers Sinclair what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m sure they can manage things.”

“Yes, of course, sir.” She bobs her head in a little nod. “I should probably check in with Su-Jin. She always gets nervous up there. Excuse me, sir.”

Wash nods and walks around her, making his way to the stage. It’s a fairly impressive construction given how quickly it came together. There’s a large arch that stretches from one side to the other, an assortment of flowers carefully woven together all over it. Each corner of the stage also has a large confetti cannon. Wash had tried to argue against those for a week and a half before giving up. They’ve done a couple test runs, so he’s fairly close to certain that it won’t be an issue.

There’s several chairs already up on the stage and a large podium right in the center, Chorus’ flag draped over the front of it. Apparently that’s the old one that had first been used when Chorus had declared themselves independent. He’s seen slightly different versions here and there that were made by the different sides, though from what he’s heard debate over which is the proper flag for each side still rages to this day.

He walks up the steps at one side, pausing at the top to survey the area. It’s more open than he likes, too many tall buildings around the park. All of them have apparently been thoroughly scanned and checked out. Wash wishes that made him actually feel better. Goddamn paranoia. Why had he agreed to leave the wall?

If there’s going to be a day when the mercs break in, it would be today. Everyone in the center of the city, they’re all sitting ducks there.

Take a breath, he reminds himself. They’ve got extra patrols on the walls. Carolina is going to be in constant communication with Park, who’s monitoring all the cameras. It’s going to be alright. They’ve thought of this. They’ve taken the necessary precautions.

It’s going to be alright.

Feeling marginally calmer, because honestly he’s been bouncing between varying levels of panic and anxiety for the last three days, he checks the timers on the canons, making sure they’re all synced up. Donut’s got everything planned down to the last second, and the canons should go off right after the generals finish speaking and lead everyone over to the reception tent.

It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to, but apparently spectacle is important. Got to end with a bang, or something. Speaking of bangs, judging by the approaching noise, Wash is pretty sure the crowds are about to arrive.

He makes his way back over to the tent, careful to keep out of the way as the rows of seats steadily fill. There’s a bit of a commotion and he turns to find the generals and their security detail making their way into the tent. Donut’s ushering them off to one side for makeup when Wash feels a tug at his sleeve and finds Tucker grinning at his side. He’s out of armor, but his sword is at his hip, he looks out of breath, but extremely pleased with himself.

Wash offers a little smile as he lightly bumps their arms together. “How was the parade?”

“Kinda awesome, actually. I’m pretty sure this one chick tried to throw me her bra.”

He snorts. “How thoughtful. But I’m glad you had fun. How did Caboose do?”

Wash spots their teammate chatting animatedly with Andersmith several feet away, both of them easy to spot even in the slowly filling space in and around the tent, standing head and shoulders above everyone else.

“He did okay. Smith was with him for most of it, helped him stay focused. I think the hearing thing bugged him a little at first, but he got past that pretty quick once.” The smile on Tucker’s face is small, but unspeakably fond. “Sarge says he should have the hearing aid ready to go in a couple days. That should help way more.”

“Good, good. I’ll talk to him about that once this is over, see if there’s any parts he needs to speed things along.” He sees Donut motion to him from across the tent and glances over his shoulder. “I should probably get on the stage. I’ll find you after?”

“Yeah you will.” Tucker grins and catches him by the collar of his shirt, tugging him down for a quick kiss. It’s nice and soft and not too obvious. They’ve had a talk about PDA, or they started to anyway. The conversation only only got as far as Tucker’s enthusiastically pro stance and Was countering with a few comments about appropriateness before they had been interrupted. Since then, Tucker’s stuck to small shows of affection in public.

It’s not what Wash is used to, but it’s something he’s starting to like.

He gives Tucker a little smile before he heads out of the tent and out onto the stage. Even this has been micromanaged to the last detail. His spot is toward the left side of the stage, standing a few seats down from Doyle, just beside Schooner. They’re already there, standing at attention, though they drop the serious look to give Wash a little smile.

“You ready for the waterworks? I’ve got a bet with Tobin that Doyle doesn’t make it halfway through his speech before he tears up,” Schooner says out of the corner of their mouth.

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “You really think he’s going to cry?”

“Oh one hundred percent. You didn’t see him this morning. Park got him this giant good luck card and got a bunch of us to sign it and I swear he almost started bawling when she handed it over.” There’s a slightly fond headshake and Wash has to fight down a grin.

They aren’t normal armies, he’s realizing that more and more. Or certainly not like what he remembers from before Freelancer. Because the generals aren’t just the faceless taskmasters giving orders from a million miles away. They care. These aren’t just their soldiers, they’re their people.

It takes about ten minutes for everyone to get up on stage, the rows of chairs still slowly filling. Grif and Simmons sit on Kimball’s side of the stage and Donut sits in the chair just in front of Wash. Tucker, Caboose, and Sarge watch from the tent. There had been plans for a ramp up to the stage, but Sarge had insisted on staying out of the way to keep an eye on the dirty blues since Caboose being near the confetti cannons had seemed like a rather bad idea.

A few members from each army speak first, Sinclair starting things off, looking a little nervous as she talks about the importance of today. Her hands shake, but she takes a breath to steady herself as her speak pops up on the prompter. “From this point forward, we are a people united again. I’ve lost… much to this war, friends, family… but I know that living in the past changes nothing. We must continue on and do our part to ensure that this never happens again...”

Jensen speaks next, her hair neatly tied back, braces gleaming in the sun. After her is Ortega, who looks over to briefly catch Wash’s eye before he shuffles up to the podium. It goes back and forth between the two armies, each speech met with polite applause, until Kimball rises and moves to the podium.

Wash glances across the stage. As expected, Carolina’s standing straight at attention, her eyes carefully scanning the crowd for any sign of danger, though there’s no hiding the way they flick to Kimball again and again, a tiny smile on her face.

He can see the slight shift in Kimball’s shoulders as she takes a breath and begins. “People of Chorus, today is a new beginning. This war has raged on far too long, and we’ve all lost things that can never be replaced. We’ve been manipulated and turned against each other, but no more. From this point on, we have to come together, to be one people again. Saying that, I know today is only the start. The wounds here run deep and there aren’t easy answers for fixing them, but the longer we let the past weight us down, the longer it will take for us to move forward.”

She looks to Doyle, extending a hand his way. “General Doyle and I have not come to this treaty lightly. There is still work to do, lines between us that we have to find a way to cross. But we can do it. We have to. In order for us to move forward, we must do so together. We will take our planet back, and we will do it together. So… who’s with me?”

The crowd bursts into applause. Kimball looks to Carolina and then to Wash, a smile on her face even as a bullet tears through her shoulder. It’s hard to hear the shot over the crowd, cheers turning to screams as Kimball clutches at the podium with one hand.

Wash whirls around. Where did it come from? Oh god. They’re not going for the walls. They’re already here.

Two more shots ring out, striking the podium. “Get off the stage,” Wash yells, throwing himself in front of Donut, wrapping an arm around him. "Schooner, get Doyle and--”

But Doyle is already out of his seat, rushing forward, throwing his body between Kimball and the still coming shots. There’s too many people moving and screaming. He can’t get to them like this. He can’t do anything for them. Grabbing Donut, he leaps off the stage. He starts toward the tent, but Donut’s fists hammering against his shoulder makes him stop.

“Wash, what are you doing?! We can’t just leave! Grif, Simmons, and Carolina are still back there!”  The panic in Donut’s eyes gets him to stop.

Setting him down,Wash grips his shoulders tight as he forces himself to take a breath. He can barely hear himself think over the screams as everyone rushes around them to find cover.

“Get to Tucker and Caboose. Help them get Sarge out of here. I’ll get the others. Go.” His tone doesn’t leave room for argument, but Donut still grabs at his arms.

“Be careful,” he says, sounding deadly seriously, squeezing Wash’s wrists tight for a moment before letting go.

Wash forces himself not to watch him go as he maneuvers his way back to the stage. The shots seemed to have paused, but he keeps his hands over his head as he rushes back to the stage. He finds Grif and Simmons heading down the steps, Kimball limp in Grif’s arms.

“She’s still breathing,” Simmons says quickly. “Carolina told us to take her--”

“Good. Get her to Dr. Grey. Where’s Carolina?”

“She’s chasing down the sniper. I dunno where she went.” Grif shakes his head. There’s blood on his face and Simmons’ arm, but neither of them look hurt. Kimball though…

“Take her to the infirmary. I’ll see if anyone else was hurt.” He claps both of them on the shoulder as he moves past.

There’s still chaos on the stage, and he finds Andersmith crouching over Doyle, half supporting the general on his lap. The podium is covered with blood, and he’s suddenly sure not all of it’s Kimball’s. Wash drops to one knee next to them. “Smith, what’s the situation?”

“Sir. The general took at least three bullets meant for Kimball. I’m doing what I can to stop the bleeding, but he needs medical attention now.” Smith’s tone is even and calm despite everything, only a hint of urgency cutting through.

Doyle’s eyes are open, but they look dazed, his face pale as he turns his head to look at Wash. “Agent Washington, I’m afraid I’ve fallen down on the job.”

“Don’t worry about that general. Smith’s going to get you to Dr.Grey, just hold on,” he says, keeping the panic out of his voice.

“Emily, good, yes, I’d very much like to see her. Perhaps she can find my legs--they’ve gone…” He trails off and Wash can’t stop his eyes from going to his middle. There’s a pool of blood forming under his back. It doesn’t look like the bullet went through and Wash has a fairly good idea what it hit.

God. He should’ve been on the wall. He should’ve moved faster. But he can’t stop now.

“Smith, take him to the infirmary now.”

“Yes sir.” Smith doesn’t need to be told twice. With a surprisingly gentleness for someone so large, Smith carefully pulls Doyle into his arms and rushes from the stage. Wash forces himself to his feet. There’s a bang that makes him drop to the stage again, another round of screams echoing through the area as the confetti cannons go off. The paper cascades through the air and Wash has to shake himself to stop watching it land in the pools of blood. There’s still more to be done.

* * *

 

The next few hours are a blur.

Seven injured. It’s not as many as he expects. He carries Sinclair to the infirmary himself after tearing off a strip of his shirt to try to staunch the bleeding from her leg.

Dr. Grey rushes both of the generals into surgery, sending updates to Wash’s datapad every five minutes. The shot that hit Kimball went straight through, which is good and bad. At least she was only hit once.

Doyle took three to the back, two catching his spine.

Wash doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to dwell. Because if he had been faster, if he had gone for Doyle or Kimball first, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. And yet… and yet he doesn’t regret his choice. And he almost hates himself for that.

Chorus needs Doyle and Kimball, but Wash wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he had left Donut behind on that stage.

He sits out in the hall outside the infirmary, Tucker on one side, Caboose on the other. The Reds sit across from them, Simmons pacing the floor as he taps frantically at his datapad. They all look up as footsteps approach when Carolina rounds the corner. She’s out of breath and her eyes are burning. Her attention goes to Simmons first.

“Do you have the tapes from the wall?”

“Park just sent them. She said Epsilon was already analyzing them, but I’ll run them through my software too. If there’s anything there one of us will have to find it eventually.”

“I don’t want to find it _eventually_ ,” she says, harsh enough to make Simmons take a step back. That seems to get through to her though and she takes a breath, moving to lean against the wall next to Sarge. He reaches for her and she takes his hand without a word. “How are they doing?”

“Still in surgery,” Wash says, checking for new messages. Nothing. “Did you find the sniper?”

“No, but I found their nest. They couldn’t have been there for long. It was up in one of the buildings we checked out earlier that day. Green’s there now with a team looking for anything that might tell us who did this.”

Wash leans back in his seat, dragging a hand over his face. “They can’t have gotten far.  We’ll find them.”

There’s nearly four times the usual amount of people on the walls now, and Wash is pretty sure they couldn’t stop the rest of both armies from scouring the city if they tried. The panic’s faded, replaced by anger. This was their day. And it’s been taken. From what he’s seen of the people of Chorus, he knows they won’t take that lying down.

“Did Park see anything?” Tucker’s frowning, fingers drumming on his arm. “Wouldn’t a whole bunch of alarms have gone off if someone tried to get in?”

“They should have,” Carolina says nodding. Her expression darkens a little and she glances up and down the hallway. Apparently deeming it safe, she blows a breath out her nose. “I don’t think someone came in… not today anyway.”

Grif leans forward a little in his seat. “You think this was an inside job?”

Simmons sighs. “Grif, that’s not what that term means.”

“Uh yeah, it means that whoever did it was inside. Inside job. Duh, Simmons.”

“That’s not--”

“Would they have snuck in while those weird camera thingies were crossing all the wires?” Donut leans forward a little in his seat to peer around Grif. “I thought we got rid of those.”

Wash nods. “We did, and Park and Epsilon ran all the footage and didn’t see anything. They didn’t find any spots where it looked like footage was missing either. I… I have a feeling that whoever did this has been here for a while.”

“So it was an inside job!”

“Grif, shut up!”

Carolina shakes her head. “I think… I think he might be right. Things have been better, but there’s plenty of people who aren’t happy with the treaty--”

She cuts herself up, looking up toward the end of the hallway where a group of muttering cadets walk by. After a second, she lets out a breath. “We’ll talk more about this later. I need to go check the defenses again. Wash, keep me posted?”

“Of course, boss.”

She squeezes Sarge’s hand and lightly pats Wash’s shoulder before she’s gone again. The rest of them wait there for a few more hours before Caboose starts to fall asleep on Wash’s shoulder and Tucker and Donut insist that they all get some rest. Honestly, Wash is amazed the rest of them aren’t drooping too. He’s pretty sure Donut’s been awake for three days now and he’s never seen Grif go so long without a nap before.

They all walk back to Friendship mountain together. Wash isn’t entirely surprised to see that there’s a small group of people sitting on the steps when they get there. He recognizes the faces from Grif and Simmons’ squads, along with Palomo and Smith. Tucker lets out a sigh and moves from Wash’s side to pull a shaking Palomo in close, keeping an arm around his shoulders as he heads into the building.

The place has never been so quiet and crowded.

At least there’s plenty of room. Grif and Simmons go on a run to grab blankets and return with probably twice as many as they need and a shopping cart full of pillows and snacks. No one talks much as they get everyone settled. Wash mostly sees the Reds and Blues quietly talking with people here and there. He gets the feeling that no one wants to be alone, watching Wexler take Jensen by the hand not long after Grif and Simmons make their own quiet exit.

So it’s not a surprise that when he finally makes his way to bed, Tucker’s already there. He’s not asleep, just laying on his back staring at the ceiling. Wash tugs the door closed behind him and steps out of his shoes before moving to join him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reaches for Tucker’s hand.

He should say something here, but… he has no idea where to start. So he just goes with it when Tucker tugs at his hand, moving to lie next to him. Tucker pulls at Wash’s arm, draping it around his shoulders as he rolls in close and tucks his head under Wash’s chin.

“Donut told me,” Tucker says softly.

Wash blinks, one eyebrow rising. He tries to think back. Did he and Donut have some deep conversation that he missed out on? He definitely can’t think of one, but so much of the day has passed in a whirl of motion and confusion, it could have slipped his mind. “Told you what?”

“You didn’t rush right in there. You grabbed him and headed for us.”

“Oh.” That’s… true. Wash hasn’t had much time to think about it. His first impulse not being to run toward the danger, to throw himself in the path of the bullet instead. No, he had run for his team. He has no idea what that says about him.

But Tucker pulls back a little to offer an expression that’s almost a smile. “It’s not bad. I’m… fuck dude, I’m glad you didn’t. When shit started kicking off, I figured you’d be right in the middle doing the self-sacrifice martyr thing. But you didn’t.”

“I guess not.” Wash shakes his head a little. “I didn’t even think about it, honestly.”

“Good,” Tucker says for some reason, smile growing a little. But then he presses his face into Wash’s chest and sucks in a sharp breath. “When… when it went down, and I knew you were up there, I thought… fuck, Wash…”

His arms wrap tightly around Tucker and he presses his face into his dreadlocks, holding him very tight for a few moments. Tucker’s hands curl into his shirt and for a second, Wash is sure he feels him shaking. He gently rubs Tucker’s back and hears him take a few deep breaths. “It’s alright… I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice low.

And god, he means that. The last thing he wants right now is to let Tucker go, to leave any of them alone for more than a few hours. That sniper’s still in the city. They could have gone for Donut or Grif or Simmons--any of them up on that stage.

There’s a horrible surge of guilt. Because he doesn't want Kimball or Doyle hurt instead. The more time he spends with them--with any of the people of Chorus, the more they work their way into his system, making him care despite his best efforts to the contrary. But there’s still a sense of relief that his team’s alright.

He leans back a little, looking down at Tucker as he gently runs a hand over his hair. “Tucker, look at me.”

Tucker shifts in his arms, lifting his head to meet Wash’s eyes. He’s not crying at least. Wash isn’t sure what he would’ve done if he was. He’s never been good with tears.

Wash cups his face and leans in, kissing him softly. It takes a second, but then Tucker’s lips move lightly against his own. There’s no heat to it… although Wash is sure there could be in just moments. He’s no stranger to ‘thank god we’re not dead’ sex, though it’s been quite some time. And he’s not quite sure he’s ready for that, but he’s fairly certain that if they started, he might not be able to make himself stop. Or if he’d even want to.

Pulling back, he presses their foreheads together. “Tucker, I… you need to know, when it’s my choice, I’ll always pick you. All of you. You are always my first choice.”

The noise Tucker makes isn’t quite a laugh and he scrunches up his face. “Jesus that shouldn’t make me happy right now,” he says, faintly shaking his head. “But… good. I was so sick of that self sacrifice crap anyway. That shit’s not even cool in movies, dude.”

“I’ll do my best to avoid that in the future.” And he means it.

Tucker answers with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for the kudos and nice comments! So this is another thing that I've had planned from the beginning, I really hope it turned out okay! Let me know if I need to add any additional warnings! I didn't want to give things away, but I don't want anyone upset by this!


	21. Alone With Our Changing Minds

“I’m so glad you finally dropped by, Wash,” Dr. Grey says brightly, closing the door to her office behind him. This one is more like an actual office than the last one, with more room for her desk and filing cabinets. It’s even got a window. 

Wash takes the seat on the other side of her desk and tries to look less uncomfortable than he is. They aren’t there to talk about him. He knows that. But he can’t shake the feeling that Emily’s eyes could see right through him if she wanted, that she could crack his head like an egg and scramble up his brains with just a few words. 

Not what they’re talking about. He knows that. 

He’s there for Kimball and Doyle. Apparently neither of them have an immediately available next of kin to talk to about their conditions. Their assistants have already been informed, but Green and Sinclair had both agreed to let him and Carolina stay up to date on the situation as well. The amount of trust that goes along with that is something Wash doesn’t want to think about too much. He has no idea how to feel about any part of it. Well, partially. Mostly he feels that it’s misplaced at least where he’s concerned, but apparently it’s a little late for that. 

Wash is really starting to wonder what it is about him that makes him seem trustworthy. Because he should try to fix that. 

Dr. Grey moves to the seat behind her desk, pulling a teapot from her drawer without prompting. She pours him a cup and slides it across the desk. “So, we should probably get right to it then?”

“Probably.” He blows a breath out his nose, steadying himself. “How bad are they?”

“Well, General Kimball’s arm and shoulder are going to take some physical therapy to be back in working shape, but I expect her to make a full recovery with time,” she says, sounding chipper as ever. Then her expression grows a little more somber. “Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for General Doyle. I did what I could to remove the bullet fragments from his spine, but the damage is quite severe. It’s difficult to say exactly how extensive it will be, but I’m fairly certain there will be at least some permanent paralysis.”

The words seem to echo in Wash’s head. Permanent paralysis. God. He was supposed to be there as Doyle’s security. He should have moved faster. He should have grabbed him too. He should--

No. No he has to stop. Wash takes a breath. What’s done is done. It’s not about him now. This is about Doyle. Doyle who he’s supposed to be helping and guiding. Who’s supposed to be his friend--

Fuck. 

Wash leans back in his chair and drags a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea how extensive it’s going to be?”

Dr. Grey grabs a datapad and pulls up a few x-rays. He’s no doctor, but Wash can already tell they’re not good. “Judging by the point of impact, it seems likely that General Doyle will experience some permanent sensory function throughout most of his legs. My guess is that he’ll retain at least some feeling in his upper thighs, but it’s difficult to know much beyond that at this point. Once he wakes up and we can run some tests, we’ll determine the full extent of the damage and look at treatment options.”

Despite himself, Wash feels hope swell up in his chest for a moment. “So there are options?”

And Dr. Grey gives him one of the saddest smiles he’s ever seen as she reaches across the desk to take his hand. “Yes, Wash, but you need to understand that these kinds of injuries are still difficult to treat. Neural modifications and cybernetic enhancements may help, but General Doyle will most likely never walk on his own again.”

The words sink into his gut like a stone and Wash nods slowly. There’s been a strange, almost numb feeling that’s lingered since the confetti cannons went off, but cracks are forming in it now, slowly chipping away at the wall. He drags a hand over his face and leans back in his chair. 

“It’s not fair,” he says, barely meaning to say it. “He… he’s been working so hard. All the training…” He shakes his head, fingers moving through his hair, though all he wants to do is tear it out of his head. 

Dr. Grey nods, letting out a soft sigh. For a few moments, she says nothing, slowly stirring at her tea. There’s dark circles under her eyes that Wash has never noticed before. “I know.”

“Isn’t this the part where you’re supposed to tell me that none of this is fair?” 

Her shoulders rise in a little shrug. “Maybe, but I agree with you. He’s my friend too, Wash. I’ve known Donny since he was young. We met when he was still an intern and I was working on my second--no, third doctorate. I think that’s right, because we would always have lunch together in the park…” 

Trailing off, she takes a breath and pulls off her glasses so she can pinch at the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear--”

“No, I do.” Wash leans forward, grabbing the hand that still rests on her desk, giving a gentle squeeze. He manages the most earnest smile he can muster. “Tell me about it. Tell me about him.”

For a moment, she looks at him, searching him with eyes that’ve seen far too much. It can’t be easy, he thinks, being the primary physician for two whole armies. For people she calls friends. The weight she must walk around with constantly, it has to be exhausting. But she still smiles at him brightly as she sits up and recounts that first meeting with Doyle. 

And in that moment, Wash is certain that there’s no one on all of Chorus stronger than Emily Grey. 

* * *

The week after Unity day isn’t the worst in Wash’s life, but it’s definitely got to be up there. It’s at least somewhere between the week after Epsilon’s removal and his first week in prison. So definitely in the top four. 

For the first few days, once the numbness has passed, there’s a sort of frantic, nervous energy that seems to creep into everyone and everything. They run over every inch of the city with a fine tooth comb. Despite his and Carolina’s best effort to the contrary, rumors start to spread when it grows more and more obvious that no one came over the wall. 

Wash hears the lieutenants whispering about it in the rec room of Friendship Mountain. 

“I heard that it was an inside job,” Palomo says, with some authority in his voice that really has no right being there. 

Bitters scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you heard Captain Grif telling Captain Simmons that earlier. I was eavesdropping with you, dumbass.”

“Oh.” Palomo deflates for a second, but then he puffs right back up. “Well did you hear that the whole thing was a setup?”

Jensen leans forward, hands resting on the edge of the air hockey table they’re clustered around. “What d’you mean? Who set it up?”

Palomo preens at her attention. “Well, according to my sources, one of the Feds set it up so Doyle could look like the big hero when he saved Kimball.”

“Hmm, an interesting theory, but… I doubt that the Feds would intentionally set up a plan that would be so dangerous to their own leader,” Smith says, his low rumble easily carrying across the room. 

Again, Palomo deflates. “Right...that’s a good point.”

“How is General Doyle anyway?” Jensen asks, hand going to Andersmith’s shoulder. 

“He’s recovering… as much as he can.” Smith shakes his head. “I don’t believe his intentions were anything but noble when he tried to assist General Kimball.”

“Yeah, but that’s cause you actually like the guy.” Bitters crosses his arms over his chest. “Y’know, they could’ve set it up together. This whole thing was to try and get us united, right? What’s gonna make us trust the Feds more than seeing one of their guys save ours? Kimball only got shot in the shoulder, right? She could’ve been in on it too and maybe Doyle just missed his mark or whatever when he was trying to be the big hero.”

Jensen sucks in a breath. “You really think General Kimball would do something like that?”

Bitters shrugs. “No. Maybe. Who fucking knows anymore?”

“Well it was definitely someone inside the city,” Palomo says helpfully. 

There’s a collective groan and Wash takes that as his cue to leave them be. 

The conspiracy theories just get wilder from there. Kimball set it up to try to eliminate Doyle. One of their assistants set up the whole thing to try to get in power instead. One of the mercs had disguised themselves as a Fed and snuck in weeks ago, biding their time until Unity Day to strike. 

Or maybe a Freelancer did it. 

Wash expects the suspicion, honestly he’s surprised it takes as long as it does for mistrusting eyes to start following him around. The Reds and Blues are war heroes, the people of Chorus almost revere them for their ‘plucky misfits’ charm. But him and Carolina? Who knows what side they’re on? They took down their own project after all, defecting once too much damage had already been done to for a ‘get out of jail free’ card. But now they want to get in good with Charon or just take the planet for themselves.

It’s… honestly not the most out there theory he’s heard flying around. At least it makes more sense than the one he hears Misra spouting in the mess hall about how an alien super virus infected the brain of whoever did it, controlling their mind into pulling the trigger. Although, if he had said ‘AI’ instead of ‘alien virus’ that one could be more plausible. 

“It makes sense,” he says one night, sitting with Carolina and the Reds and Blues in the lounge. “That they would suspect us. We’re the outsiders here after all.”

“But that’s bullshit.” Tucker’s got his arms crossed over his chest where he leans against Wash’s side. “Y’all have risked your asses for this planet how many times now?”

“True, but we’re still likely candidates,” Carolina says, ruefully. “Look how close we’ve both gotten to the generals. It would be easy for us to take control. If Doyle and Kimball had died and there were a few forged documents saying they put us in charge…”

Suddenly Simmons rises from his seat at the same time that Donut sucks in a sharp breath. Wash looks between the two of them, eyebrows rising. Simmons has his datapad in hand already, dragging Grif to his feet with the other. “We need to go check the general’s offices. Right now.”

Carolina frowns, slowly rising from her seat. “I didn’t say there were forged documents, it’s just a theory--”

“A theory that’s been spreading around the whole city faster than Grif goes through a can of spray cheese--”

“Hey! That was one time!”

“--no, but don’t you think that’s weird?” Simmons looks around at all of them. “You and Wash are in the perfect spot. Close to the generals, but you’re still scary outsiders. If you hadn’t been on that stage, I bet people would already be saying one of you shot the generals.”

Wash blanches and looks to Carolina, eyes going wide. “We weren’t supposed to be there,” he says slowly.

Carolina’s eyes widen, then narrow. “But we would’ve been on the wall--someone would’ve been able to vouch for us…”

Simmons is already shaking his head. “If the two of you were patrolling the same section and there was no one else there, it would’ve been just the two of you to vouch for each other. People could say one of you stayed there while the other one took the shots. It’s the perfect set up.”

“Alright, but that’s all circumstantial,” Wash says, but he’s starting to feel something cold running down his spine. “That wouldn’t be enough to prove it was us. They’d need more evidence.”

“The bullets.” Donut’s whisper fills the room and he’s gone almost worryingly pale when Wash looks over at him. He’s got both hands pressed to his mouth, eyes wide as he stares at Carolina, who looks like she’s just been hit in the stomach.

Confusion flits across a few faces. Grif looks between Donut and Carolina. “What bullets? The fuck are you talking about, Donut?”

Wash feels Tucker go tense next to him. “They were sniper rounds,” he says and turns Wash’s blood to ice.

Grif groans and throws up his hands. “What were sniper rounds? Would someone explain what the fuck is going on?”

“I found some bullets in Wash’s room,” Donut says, voice very soft. 

“You’re keeping bullets in your room now?” Simmons eyes look like they might pop out of his head. 

“They weren’t mine.” Wash shakes his head. “I’d never seen them before. They were sniper bullets. I always use a battle rifle. I had no idea what they were doing there, and then… Carolina, you found--”

“--a scope,” she says, finishing his sentence. She gets up and starts pacing. “I had never seen it there before and it looked like it was new. They’ve been setting us up. Simmons, you need to get to the generals’ offices and--”

“Already going.” Simmons is halfway to the door. He pauses just outside and sticks his head back in. “Uh, can you send Epsilon up to help?”

Carolina nods. “I’ll have him meet you there.”

“Alright. Good. Come on Grif.” 

“Why the hell do I have to come?” Grif lets out a huff, but he gets up and trails out after Simmons. He lingers for a second to shoot a halfhearted glare at Wash and Carolina. "If either of you did it, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Wash is pretty sure he’s joking. It doesn’t do much to lift the atmosphere once they’re gone. There’s a soft noise as Sarge clears his throat. The old soldier’s face is stony when Wash looks to meet his eyes. 

“So, when exactly were the pair of you gonna tell the rest of us about this?” Sarge doesn’t sound angry exactly, but he certainly doesn’t sound happy. There’s a sort of calm to his voice that’s a little worrying. 

Wash winces at he looks to Carolina, who’s looking at the floor the way she used to when reporting a mission failure to the Director. “We were going to mention it,” he says slowly. “There just… wasn’t a good moment with all the planning. Everyone was so busy…”

But that feels like a pretty sorry excuse even as he says it. So Wash lets out a breath and drops his head. “I’m sorry, Sarge. We should have told all of you as soon as we suspected something was wrong.”

“Damn right you should’ve,” Sarge says firmly. “This ain’t just on you two. Seems there’s a couple other people here who could’ve found the time…”

Wash feels Tucker flinch next to him and he spares a glance at Donut and finds him rubbing at his arms, sheepish and distinctly uncomfortable. But then Sarge takes a breath. “Suppose there’s nothing to be done ‘bout that now. C’mon Caboose, let’s get back to work on that hearing aid.”

“Okay, Colonel Sergeant. I do not want to stay here anyway, too many secret things crawling out of the walls. I don’t like that,” Caboose says, shaking his head as he moves to wheel Sarge out of the room. 

That almost stings more than Sarge’s ‘not angry, just disappointed’ voice. Because Caboose doesn’t do disappointed, he just sounds hurt. It hadn’t seemed like something they needed to know. Both of them have enough on their plates now, but… if Wash is honest with himself, that’s not why he didn’t tell them. 

He simply didn’t think to. Even after all this time, having a team is still taking some getting used to. And his ‘us vs them’ battle plans don’t work if his ‘us’ don’t know what’s happening.    


* * *

Rumors keep spreading and it doesn’t take long before fights start breaking out. So much for Unity Day. Though the lines now seem to be less divided between Fed and rebel and more just who believes what rumor or who woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. 

Doyle and Kimball are both awake, but there’s not much they can do to make things better from the hospital beds Dr. Grey refuses to let them leave. “I’m very sorry, Agent Washington,” she tells him, usual bright smile in place. “But the generals are under my care until further notice and that’s all I have to say on the matter.”

“But Emily--”

“No buts! If you think I’m letting either of them out of my sight before I’m certain they’re in fit shape to go back to working themselves half to death, then you’ve got another thing coming.” Her voice has that worrying, sugar sweet edge to it as she pats his cheek and breezes past him. 

Wash has seen what she can do with a needle and a pair of tweezers, so he doesn’t argue the point further. It’s probably best for the generals to stay somewhere safe and secure anyway. With how shaky things are, he’s half sure another assassination attempt could tear everything to pieces. 

Kimball hates it. 

At least Wash is able to bring her paperwork to sign off on without Dr. Grey threatening him oh so sweetly. It gives them a chance to talk. Letting out a huff, Kimball dots the ‘I’ in her name with a little more aggression than necessary. 

“This is nothing,” she says, probably in anticipation of Wash asking how she’s doing. Her arm is in a sling, hair held back by a teal headband. Carolina’s been here. All things considered, she actually does look like she’s doing well. 

“Dr. Grey says that the injury is still pretty serious--”

“People act like I’ve never been shot before.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not a desk jockey, Wash. This is far from the worst, and serious or not, someone needs to get things back under control. I can’t lead people from this damn bed.”

“I know.” Wash can’t stop himself from sighing. He drags a hand through his hair and Kimball’s shoulders slump a little. Her eyes go back to the datapad, scrolling to the next document she needs to sign off on. 

“It’s bad out there, isn’t it?” 

For a moment, Wash feels a lie forming on his tongue. She doesn’t need more stress. But she should know what’s waiting for her when she’s finally allowed out. He bobs his head in a slight nod. “It’s a little rough. The people are scared. They don’t know who they can trust and… honestly I can’t blame them.”

Kimball sighs like a woman twice her age. Honestly, Wash is amazed she hasn’t started going gray at the temples like him and Carolina. She can’t be more than a year younger than he is. In her thirties and in charge of half a planet. Jesus Christ. And he thought managing the Reds and Blues was a challenge. 

“I don’t either, but the sooner I can get out of here to talk to them, the better.” She shakes her head, scrolling through something on the datapad. “Doyle and I need to speak to them and get things back under control.”

For the briefest of moments, her hand falters. “How is he?”

Both the generals had their own rooms, separate from the rest of the infirmary. Armonia’s hospital was more than large enough for that. The only reason more of the building wasn’t being used was… well, a lack of staff to keep it all running. Thankfully, crowding hasn’t become a problem. Yet. Wash hates that yet. 

Keeping the generals separate has it’s ups and downs. For one, the fewer things to stress them, the better. But with only a few people allowed to see them at a time, a number of rumors have cropped up insisting that one or both of them didn’t survive. There had been half an idea to let that spread and hope it got out to the mercs to throw them off, but Wash had shut that down rather quickly. It wasn’t worth their own people panicking and since they still hadn’t managed to track down the assassin, there was no guarantee they weren’t still passing info right to Locus and Felix that could shoot the rumor down in a second. 

Wash hesitates for a moment before letting out a breath. “He’s still recovering. I haven’t had a chance to speak with him for more than a few minutes at a time. Dr. Grey doesn’t want him over exerting himself.”

Kimball nods slowly. She just taps at the datapad for a few seconds, but Wash is almost sure she’s barely even looking at it anymore. “And… his legs? Dr. Grey said…”

Sighing heavily, Wash nods. “It’s as bad as she expected.” 

He glances over her, finding the general’s face almost impossible to read. Wash drums his fingers on his knee, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. He should say something here, tell her it’s alright, that it’s not her fault, but the words are all going to seem hollow. 

After a moment, she curses, tossing the datapad down on her lap. “Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. I didn’t want this--I never asked him to--” Kimball cuts herself off, dragging a hand down her face. “They’re going to blame me,” she says, very softly. 

“It’s not your fault--”

“I know that,” she says, apparently a little more sharply than she means to as she looks sheepish a moment later and shakes her head. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what he did. I probably owe him my life. But his people are going to hate me for this. He’s going to be a martyr and I’m… I’m the selfish victim who took his legs and can’t even be bothered to be grateful properly.” 

“You’re not selfish--”

She silences him with a look. “I know. But nothing Doyle I do can be small. Every action, every word out of our mouths gets twisted and seen a million different ways. If I thank him, I’m admitting it’s my fault. If I don’t, I’m not grateful. There isn’t room for me to actually  _ feel _ anything without being judged for it.” 

Wash wants to argue, but the conversation he’d overheard floods back into his mind. People already think that the two of them could’ve planned it. Or that one of them did it to make the other look worse or better. There’s too many rumors, and honestly… he’s willing to bet Kimball’s exactly right. 

There’s no winning for her or Doyle here. They’re leaders, and that means they can’t just be people anymore. 

He thinks for a moment and tries to pick his words carefully. “If Doyle makes a statement… he may be able to take some of the pressure off of you. This shouldn’t be something either of you are judged for. It’s not--it isn’t fair.”

Kimball lets out a laugh that sounds as bitter and tired as he’s ever felt. “Wash, no part of this is ever going to be fair. I’m only angry I didn’t see it coming. We were so close… so damn close to putting things back on the right track…”

“You still can. This doesn’t have to ruin it. You and Doyle have put in too much work to let things fail now.”

She blows out a breath and nods slowly. “I know. And we won’t. This is just… another rough patch to get through. If Doyle can make a statement once he’s released from Dr. Grey’s care, that should help. And catching the damn assassin that did this. The sooner we find out who was behind this the better. I’m guessing you weren’t able to get any fingerprints off the bullets left in your room?”

Wash’s shoulders slump a little as he shakes his head. “None that wouldn’t incriminate myself, or the Reds and Blues.”

They had swept over the bullets from his room and the scope from Carolina’s, in addition to the rooms themselves. Nothing. Whoever had done it had done their best to leave no trace behind.

“Unfortunately, all we know for sure now is that the bullets in my room were the same kind you and Doyle were shot with. If Carolina and I had been at the wall like we were meant to, someone already would’ve tried to pin the blame on us.” He glares at the tiled floor, dragging a hand through his hair. “Just need to figure out who that  _ someone _ is.”

Kimball tips her head back, a frown on her lips, brow furrowed in concentration. “It would have to be someone close to the planning process, someone who would’ve known where you and Carolina would be during the speech… and they’d have to be able to gain access to your building.”

Wash scoffs a little. “That second part’s easy. We let just about anyone in there. Never thought to set up cameras in our own rooms. I know Donut had plenty of people over to help with the planning, but I don’t know how many of them would have access to personnel information.”

“That would have to be someone in my office or Doyle’s. We had been trying to keep guard duty for the day of quiet, only a few people would’ve had access to the files.” She flicks through several files on the datapad. “This level of clearance… Doyle and I only gave this to a few people. Wash do you remember if you volunteered for guard duty or did someone suggest you?”

Frowning, Wash shakes his head. “I don’t remember…”

It hadn’t been something he had paid any attention to at the time. Guard duty had seemed like a decent idea at the time, if anything, he had been far more concerned with Carolina pulling both of them from the wall later. God, if she hadn’t done that… he doesn’t want to think about where they would be now. And yet he can’t make himself stop. 

“I think… it might have been a suggestion. I can’t think of who would have said it. For all I know, it could have been Doyle, well… no, no I remember he wanted me on the stage to begin with.” Wash rubs a hand over his jaw, trying to think back. 

And… he can’t think of it. Try as he might, he just comes up blank. Damn it, why hadn’t he been paying more attention? So what if things had been going a million miles an hour in that meeting and he had been checking his datapad every few seconds to see what Donut needed.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says, shaking his head. 

“It’s alright. I don’t remember either.” She sighs and sets the datapad aside again. “I should’ve been keeping track. There was just… so much to do, I didn’t even think about it. I suppose that means that whoever it was wasn’t anyone out of the ordinary. So… it was likely either me, Doyle, or one of our assistants…”

“It doesn’t do any good grasping at straws. What we need is to find our would be assassin and see if they know anything.”

Kimball nods and leans back against her pillows. She looks exhausted, he doesn’t blame her. After everything she’s had to deal with lately, it’s a wonder she doesn’t just start screaming. Slowly, he rises from his chair, grabbing the datapad. “I should let you get some sleep.”

She laughs, but it doesn’t sound right. “Right, sleep. Goodnight, Agent Washington.”

“Goodnight, General.” He gives her a little nod and, after a moment’s hesitation, reaches to gently squeeze her hand. Looking up at him, a very faint smile forms on her face as she squeezes back. 

“I’ll be alright, Wash.”

“I know.” But it still makes a knot of tension uncurl in her chest to hear her say it. 

He takes his leave and isn’t entirely surprised when he sees Carolina headed the other way. Wash gives her a nod, that she returns, but he doesn’t stop her. Because he has a feeling he’d be something of a hypocrite if he did, particularly when he gets back to his room to find Tucker already there. 

That’s been happening more and more lately, and Wash can’t say that he minds. In spite of everything else, with Tucker at his side, he’s been sleeping better than he has in months. Maybe years. And somehow that almost feels wrong. Why the hell does he deserve to get a goodnight’s sleep when the rest of the city is crumbling around them. 

Tucker’s half asleep when he gets there and pushes the door open. Wash feels a little bad until Tucker pushes himself up on one arm, the thin blanket slipping down his bare chest like something out of a romance novel, exposing abs that he knows Tucker’s oh so proud of. His smile is lazy as his eyes trail over Wash. “Hey baby, you just get back?”

“Yeah, didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“It’s cool. Not like I meant to pass out. C’mere.”

Wash toes out of his shoes and crosses the room, the thin mattress dipping under him as he sits on the edge. Tucker’s fingers curl into the collar of his shirt and he pulls him in for a kiss. It takes only a moment for the tension to start easing out of his shoulders. Tucker’s lips are so soft and warm, he could melt against them. 

He lets Tucker push him back onto the bed and settle over him. That weight is strangely comfortable, keeping him grounded even as the little tugs to his hair send sparks down his spine. Tucker’s mouth moves to his neck and Wash can’t stop the soft sigh that slips out of him. 

“You’re so fucking tense, dude,” Tucker mumbles against his skin, hands moving gently up and down Wash’s sides, making him shudder when they creep up under his shirt. Those careful, callus covered fingers quickly strip Wash of his shirt and then set to work tracing old scars as Tucker mouths at his collarbone. 

“Everyone’s tense.” But that doesn’t mean he’s about to stop him. His hands run over Tucker’s back, tracing over the flat planes of muscle. Tucker might be a bit slimmer than he is, but there’s no hiding the way he’s grown more and more toned over the last few months. It’s something Wash tries not to notice too much in training, but here, in the comfort of their room, he’s willing to take a few moments to appreciate it. 

Tucker’s hands slide down his chest, fingers lightly plucking at the waistband of Wash’s sweats. Cocking an eyebrow, Wash shifts so he can look at him. “What are you doing?”

For a second, Tucker looks almost nervous as he flashes Wash a little grin. “I dunno. Just thinking… maybe a little stress relief. If you’re up for it?”

“I…” This isn’t the kind of thing Wash gets to have. He’s not supposed to have this, to have Tucker. Armonia’s falling apart just outside. 

But god he wants it. Maybe, maybe just for tonight, he can be selfish. Tomorrow he’ll see Doyle and Kimball and work to put things back together, but for tonight, all he wants is Tucker. They’ve been going slow, hands staying almost exclusively above the belt. And it’s nice, so goddamn nice. 

After everything, after today though, he’s ready to go just a little faster.

His hands move through Tucker’s hair as he nods and then tugs him up into a kiss. “Are you sure? You don’t have to--”

“Dude, I’ve wanted to suck your dick since like a month after we met.” Tucker grins wide and Wash doesn’t have time to process that before he’s kissing his way down his chest. Hands get his sweats out of the way and Tucker’s lips make the rest of the world fade away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that fade to black there at the end. I decided early on that the only thing giving this fic an M rating is the violence that I've got planned later on, but if anyone wants a little more where that came from, I'm always happy to write side stories to this to fill in the blanks later! I say this every week, but thank you so much for the kudos and comments! Those really do make my day! We've got a few breather chapters here to deal with the fall out from last time, but the end of part one is coming up soon so there'll be more action headed your way in just a bit!


	22. Walk a Fragile Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood, major injury

It’s hard to come back to the stage. The whole place has a sort of distant, surreal air now. Some of the blood’s been cleaned… as much as it could be anyway. It’s seeped into the wood in places, turned it a deep, sickly red. Wash doesn’t envy whoever had to try to clean it up. 

Carolina and Simmons are there before Wash, already examining things. The whole area’s been swept multiple times, but after scouring the city and finding zero trace of the assassin, they’ve decided to come back to the target while Donut, Tucker, and Epsilon check out the sniper’s nest. There has to be something somewhere. Something they missed. Anything to give some idea where to look. 

Wash heads up the steps of the stage, trying not to look at the podium or the bullet holes in it. The bullets themselves are long gone, nothing more to be found there. Focus on the matter at hand. Don’t think about the gunshots. Don’t think about Doyle bleeding on the stage. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Breathe. 

And he’s steady, moving to Carolina’s side. “Anything?”

“Not yet.” She’s got a hand held to block the sun from her eyes as she looks toward the sniper’s nest. She’d found the spot in an abandoned office building. They clearly hadn’t been there long or camped out there much. All Carolina had found to confirm it was the right spot was the gun and the scuff marks left behind by someone in a hurry. 

Frowning, Wash looks the same way. There’s honestly not much to make out from the stage. He can see… someone on the balcony waving. Donut probably. Tucker and Epsilon must be inside. 

There’s a tap at his arm and he looks down, finding the comm Carolina’s offering him. He takes it with a nod, sticking the bud in his ear, tapping it on mid conversation. 

“--squeaky clean, not even a speck of spunk in the place.”

Simmons chokes where he’s standing on the stage, Wash can see his grip tighten worryingly on his datapad. “God, Donut, don’t say it like that.” 

“He’s right though,” Tucker cuts in. “This place is totally empty. Church says there’s no signs that anyone’s lived here in ages. He was probably just here for a couple hours.”

Carolina frowns, her eyes traveling over the rest of the building. “And no one’s been staying in any of the other rooms there?”

“Not that we can tell. Hang on… yeah, Church says he’s not getting any heat signatures or anything here. This place is fucking empty, Carolina.”

She growls and turns away, hands on her hips. Wash’s brow furrows, eyes flicking to the buildings near by. Slowly, he tips his head to one side. “Why that building…”

“What’s that Wash?” Donut asks. 

Wash shakes his head a little. “It’s just… there’s got to be half a dozen spots the sniper could’ve picked. Why that one?”

Simmons hums, his brows knitting together as he moves to stand next to Wash, looking between the buildings and his datapad. “It looks like a lot of those buildings have been locked down for a while. Most of the ones in that area are owned by… or used to be owned by the same person. They were all part of the same company, Clarity Clear. The files say they used to be one of the biggest startups on the planet before the war. Their buildings were all locked down after some of the higher ups were killed in the war. Jeez, their security system is ridiculous.”

Wash leans a little closer, peering at the datapad. “Holographic locks, security cameras, laser grids… why would someone go through all the effort of getting past that just to get to that spot?”

“I don’t think they had to,” Carolina says slowly. “There didn’t seem like there was any kind of security when I went in. Whoever was up there had already shut it all down. They must’ve known the passcodes to get in… or been given them by someone. You don’t think… Doyle?”

Turning to her sharply, Wash frowns, a protest half formed, but Simmons cuts him off. “I don’t think so. Those buildings were locked down way before Doyle took over. I don’t see anything connecting him to the company in here.”

Wash looks back to the datapad, watching Simmons scroll through news articles about the company, pictures and text whirring by, until something catches his eye and he reaches out, stopping Simmons’ hand. “Wait, go back to that last article.”

Simmons scrolls up to a picture of two men shaking hands above the headline that caught Wash’s eyes. He reads it outloud. “New President of Clarity Clear, to take over from father… James Sinclair…”

“Sinclair,” Simmons repeats, eyes widening. 

There’s bile on Wash’s tongue. Suddenly, there’s not a doubt in his mind as to who suggested he and Carolina take guard duty that day. She had been so surprised to see him there… upset almost. 

He’s halfway down the steps before he realizes he’s even moving. “Wash, where are you going?” Carolina calls from behind him. 

“The hospital,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I need to have a talk with Corporal Sinclair.”

* * *

Sinclair’s not in the hospital, which is something that would’ve been nice to know before Wash stormed in there so determinedly, only to be chased out by Dr. Grey, holding a tongue depressor in the most menacing way possible. He’s still fuming by the time he storms right back out the infirmary doors, dragging his hands through his hair. 

Carolina, Simmons, Tucker, and Donut have caught up to him by now, most of them still far more calm and less ready to tear down half the city to find Sinclair. Tucker grabs at his arm to try to slow him down. “Wash, would you just hold on a second, Jesus Christ.”

“I can’t. For all we know she could have already fled the city. She could be halfway back to Locus and Felix--”

“Or she’s in her office,” says Simmons.

That brings Wash to an abrupt halt. He turns to look at Simmons with wide eyes. There’s the tiniest hint of a smile on his face as he looks at his datapad. “According to the building’s security system, she just tapped in five minutes ago.”

Wash starts to turn, only to find Donut very suddenly in front of him. “Not so fast, Mister. If we’re going there, we need a plan.”

“Donut--”

“Wash, he’s right.” Carolina sounds like she’s forcing herself not to go charging off three steps ahead of him. “We need to be smart about this. Sinclair has to know that someone would connect her to this eventually. We can’t just rush in there guns blazing, she’ll be ready.”

Taking a breath, Wash tries to calm the sound of his heart racing in his ears. They’re right. He knows that. Slowly, he nods and turns to look at the others. “Alright, what’s the plan?”

“We need to talk to her.” Wash’s eyes go wide as he looks to Donut. “Oh don’t you give me that look, Wash, we need the whole story here. We don’t know why she would’ve given up the codes, or if she even did. Someone could’ve slipped right into her office and gotten them from her computer, or she could’ve been threatened.”

And Wash has to fight back a wince. Because Donut could be right. Suddenly, he very much wants him to be. He wants there to be another explanation, a good reason for this. 

That doesn’t stop the sneaking suspicion creeping through him though, too much jaded bitterness not letting him really believe there could be anything but pure, unremorseful betrayal here. 

They make a plan as they walk, deciding to just… approach casually. Donut and Tucker agree to do the talking. They’ve got the friendliest faces and the only decent people skills out of the bunch of them. Carolina insists on waiting outside, just in case she decides to make a run for it. As they pass the desks in the lobby, Wash almost wants to stop, to ask the receptionist to lock down the building. 

No. They can’t tip her off. Don’t want to spook her. 

Donut somehow manages a bright smile when he knocks at the door to her office. “Come in!” calls Sinclair from the other side. 

She’s seated at her desk, eyes on the datapad in front of her, hair neatly tied back. Perfectly put together. As always. Except… that she isn’t. Her shoulders are a little too straight, the tension there obvious after only a moment, dark circles under her eyes standing out against skin that’s a touch paler than usual. 

Wash stays close to the door as it shuts behind him, Simmons at his shoulder as Donut and Tucker approach her desk. Donut’s smile is as bright and cheery as ever as he leans on the desk. “Heeeeey, Jenny. So, how’s my favorite girl? What’ve you been up to lately?”

The smile she gives Donut is forced, a few more teeth in it than necessary. “Just recovering from Unity Day. Things have gotten a little out of control here and someone has to get everything back in order for General Doyle.” 

“Of course, and you’re just the person to do that, aren’t you, pumpkin?” He perches on the edge of her desk and Wash suddenly notices there a little… edge to Donut’s voice that he’s never heard there before. 

Her voice is saccharine sweet and she clasps her hands on the desk. “You know it, Franky. So, what can I do for you all tonight?”

“You can tell us why you gave the sniper the passcodes for the Clarity whatever building.” Tucker’s as subtle as a steam roller. 

Sinclair tips her head to one side. “Oh. You mean my father’s company? My dead father, of course. The one that would’ve gone to my older sister, if she weren’t dead too. Or my brother, but, well… I think you can guess. Those buildings are mine--they’re all I have left of my family.”

“And this is how you’re using them?” Wash can’t stop himself stepping forward. “You really think this is what they would want? To be building blocks to an assassination?”

Sinclair’s eyes narrow as she shakes her head. “Don’t you talk like you know me, Agent Washington. Like you care. You told me yourself you didn’t. Don’t pretend you give a damn about me or my family--you don’t care about anyone here. None of you do. All you want is to fix our stupid little war so you can go home and forget about us.”

“But we were fixing things--”

Her laugh is sharp and piercing. “No, you weren’t. There’s no  _ fixing _ Chorus. Doyle and Kimball can’t just shake hands and make all the bad things go away! That’s not how this works. She killed my family. The New Republic put them down like dogs, and you want me to just act like it didn’t happen?”

Wash opens his mouth and shuts it, anger mingling with a dozen other thoughts and feelings he has no idea how to sort through. Luckily Donut’s got a bit more composure. “Assassinating Kimball wouldn’t bring them back.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sinclair sounds like she’s fighting down tears. “But I couldn’t just do nothing. I… I didn’t know what to do… I needed time...”

“You’ve been sabotaging things,” Simmons says quietly. 

Sinclair flinches. “Not everything.”

“But enough to keep us looking everywhere else.” Wash’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “What were you stalling for? The mercs? You don’t think they’re going to help you, you can’t be that naive--”

“I told you, there’s no fixing Chorus,” she snaps. “But they could get me and… and the only people I have left off this planet. If Doyle and Kimball were gone and--and everyone was looking the other way, I thought… I thought I’d have a chance to get away…”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

Sinclair takes a breath and slowly shakes her head. “You really don’t know me at all, Agent Washington.” 

Faster than lightening, Sinclair pulls a gun from under her desk and fires off two shots. There’s a horrible gasp from Simmons as he sinks to the floor, hands pressed to his side, but it’s the burst of noise from Tucker as he drops clutching at his leg that sends ice running through Wash’s veins. Before he can move, she’s got Donut in a headlock, gun pressed to his temple. 

Wash’s gun is in his hand in an instant, training it on Sinclair, but… Tucker, Simmons--god that’s a lot of blood. No. No, no, no. 

“I wouldn’t do that, Agent Washington. If you pull your trigger, I’ll pull mine. I don’t think you want to do that anyway… Captain Simmons and Captain Tucker don’t have a lot of time for you to mess around. So get out of my way and let me leave--have Carolina order everyone to let me out and… and I’ll let Donut go.” There’s a slight shake to her voice, but her hand stays steady on the gun. 

Wash’s eyes flick to Tucker. His hands are pressed to his leg, but the pool of blood forming under him is growing fast. Too fast. Simmons isn’t much better, already looking too pale where he’s slumped against the wall. Damn it. 

Wash drops his gun to his side and taps the comm in his ear. “Carolina.”

_ “Wash, what’s wrong? I heard shots--” _

“Stand down. You need to let Sinclair go.”

_ “But Wash--” _

“Let her go and call for medical. We need two stretchers here and medics on site  _ now _ .” There’s an urgency in his voice that he can’t hold back and there’s a second’s pause before she responds. 

_ “Alright. I’ll have the way cleared for her.” _

“Good.” Wash can barely breathe as he looks to Sinclair, hands twitching at his sides. How could he have been so blind? He should’ve seen this coming, should’ve known better. “You’re clear to go. Get out. Now.”

“You’re in no position to be giving me orders right now, Agent Washington.” But that’s her only protest. She walks around the desk, dragging Donut with her. To his credit, he doesn’t look remotely frightened, concern flitting over his face as he looks between Simmons and Tucker, but he walks along without protest. For a split second, Wash thinks he sees a flash of something in his hand, but then they’re moving past him and out the door. 

He waits for the footsteps to fade down the hall--it takes an eternity, Sinclair’s limping steps slowly moving toward the elevator--and then he moves. Dropping to Simmons’ side first, Wash gently pulls his hands from the wound, trying to inspect the damage. Fuck. There’s no way that didn’t hit something important. He reaches up and turns Simmons’ face toward him. “Simmons? Stay with me. Do you have any bio foam on you?”

The look on his face is a little dazed, but his eyes seem to focus. Or the regular hazel one does, the red one just blinks weakly. That’s not good. After a second, he managed a nod. “Yeah. Yes. Sir. In my… in my arm. There should be some, always carry extra.” 

“Right, your arm.” Wash’s eyes flick over it. He’s never touched Simmons’ prosthetics before. Once or twice he’s seen him working on those, and he knows that there’s a few compartments, but...he has no idea where of how to open them. The whole thing is a mess of overlapping metal and wires. His hands hover for a few seconds before Simmons seems to realize the problem. 

“Hit the released on my shoulder. Little silver button. Should be… plenty in there.” Simmons tips his head back against the wall, eyes falling half shut. No. God no.

Wash reaches up and lightly smacks at his face. “Simmons--Simmons no, stay with me soldier. Medical’s on their way. Do you hear me? You need to stay awake, understand?”

Simmons blinks a little, for a moment, much more alert as he nods. “Yes sir.”

“Good man.”

He finds the silver button and hits it, leaving a smear of blood behind. There’s a strange, mechanical hiss and what looks like steam shoots out of Simmon’s shoulder before a compartment flicks open. There’s three canisters of biofoam inside. Thank god. It won’t fix things, but it’ll stop them getting any worse. 

Carefully, he moves Simmons hands again and inserts the nozzle of the canister into the wound. There’s a sharp pained gasp from Simmons, his face contorting, but at least he doesn’t bat Wash’s hands away. He gives Simmons shoulder a squeeze, finding his eye mostly clear. “Just stay put. Try not to move to it can set.”

Simmons nods and sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. “Can you… can you call Grif? I want Grif.”

There’s a lump in Wash’s throat that he forces himself to swallow. “Yeah, yeah. Hold on.” 

His eyes flick to Tucker. He’s still sitting upright, looking concious. But god there’s so much blood. Wash forces his hands steady as he pulls Simmons datapad from his pocket, sending off a few quick messages to Grif and then pressing it into Simmons hand when a video call window opens up. 

_ “Simmons? Dude, what the fuck happened? Where are you?” _

“Dexter--” There’s a weird softness to Simmons’ voice that makes Wash’s heart clench. He turns away, moving to Tucker, vaguely aware of the low conversation happening behind him. 

Tucker shoots him a pained smile as Wash drops to one knee next to him, another canister in hand. “So, that fucking sucked,” he says, still managing to keep his tone light. 

Wash tries to force a smile, but it doesn’t stay on his face for more than a second. “That’s putting it mildly. Let me see your leg.”

Tucker’s reluctant to move his hands and Wash doesn’t blame him. The blood flows fast, soaking his pants and carpet. Wash fills the wound quickly, not so much as wincing when Tucker grabs at his shoulder, squeezing hard. Biofoam helps, but fuck if it doesn’t feel like shit going in. 

It’s not enough. He should wrap the wound to make sure the foam stays in place, but he doesn’t have anything on him for that. Damn it. Why didn’t he bring a medical kit? He should’ve known something would go wrong. 

“Wash? Hey, you with me?” A hand lightly smacks at his cheek and he snaps out of his thoughts and looks into Tucker’s big, brown eyes, still clear and full of life. He’s alright still. Wash forces himself to take a breath as he nods. 

“I am. Just stay still. I… I need to see if medical’s here yet.” But he doesn’t want to leave. His eyes flick over Tucker, then to Simmons. He’s still talking to his datapad in a soft voice. Grif’s probably on his way too. And Wash… he can’t leave them. Not to get medical, not to go after Sinclair, not to get…

Donut. 

Wash jabs at his comm. “Carolina? Is Sinclair clear of the building?”

For a second, there’s no response and Wash can almost feel his heart stop. _“She’s out, headed for the wall. Medical will be here in two and sent up to you. How bad is it, Wash?”_

Concern slips past her usual cool. Wash glances between Tucker and Simmons again. “They’re stable, for now, but the sooner we get them to Grey the better. What about Donut, is he still with her?”

_ “He is. She said she’ll release him at the wall in exchange for a mongoose. We’ve cleared one side for her. She… she gave up the assassin. He’s a Fed, we’ve got people tracking him down right now. At least we got one.” _

That’s something, but it’s not enough. “Just make sure someone’s got eyes on her and Donut from a distance. She shot Tucker and Simmons without blinking, I… I doubt she’d stop there.”

_“Right.”_

Seconds tick on. It’s less than a minute before the medics arrive, Grif three feet ahead of them, but it’s the longest goddamn minute of Wash’s life. Simmons is still conscious, but only just. It takes too medics to shoo Grif away from him long enough for them to get him on a stretcher and out of the room. Tucker’s still awake and cracking jokes. The medics at least let Wash and Grif stay until they reach the hospital. He jogs alongside Tucker’s gurney, holding his hand (“That’s kinda gay, dude. At least say ‘no homo’ first.” “Tucker this is _ not _ the time.”). 

Grif doesn’t say a word, face stony as he holds Simmons’ flesh hand almost worryingly tight. As Wash expects, they’re stopped at the door as the medics wheel Tucker and Grif away into Dr. Grey’s hands. As they wheel off down the hall, another team of medics rush the other way and there’s a horrible sinking feeling in Wash’s gut. 

He takes a few steps away from Grif, who’s still just standing there, motionless, watching the door swing. Wash taps at his comm and takes a deep breath. “Carolina?”

_ “She shot Donut.”  _

His stomach is full of ice. “How bad?”

_ “She shot him in the arm. Tobin and Jensen were tailing them, they’ve already got him and administered biofoam. Jensen says he was trying to reason with Sinclair, but then it seemed like she panicked and shot him before she took off. I think he’ll be alright, medical’s already on the way--” _

“I know, I saw them heading out. Grif and I are still at the infirmary. They just took in Simmons and Tucker.”

_ “How’s Grif?” _

Wash risks another glance Grif’s way. He’s still in the same spot. The only thing that’s moved is his hand. He’s clutching at something on a chain around his neck. It takes Wash a second before it clicks and he turns away again. “Managing. I’ll stay with him.”

_ “Alright. Don’t do anything stupid, Wash.” _

Stupid like walk right into Sinclair’s office without full armor and a team to take her down? He grits his teeth and blows a breath out his nose. “Yes, boss.” 

Motion catches his eye and he turns to find Grif storming away from the infirmary. Wash curses under his breath. “Carolina, I’ve gotta grab Grif. You stay with Donut, alright? Or see if you can get any updates--”

_ “I’ve got it, Wash. Go.” _

He nods, though there’s no way she can see him. “Got it, Boss.” He taps at the comm again and rushes to catch up with Grif. 

“Don’t you fucking try to stop me,” Grif says, stride so quick Wash has to almost jog to keep pace with him. 

“Stop you from doing what?”

“I’m packing up our fucking shit. We’re getting off this goddamn planet. I’m not doing this bullshit anymore.” His hands are curled into fists at his sides, jaw clenched. 

“Grif you can’t--”

“Can’t what, Wash? You gonna stop me from leaving? I don’t owe these people a goddamn thing! Neither do you. I don’t give a fuck about any of this!” 

Wash speeds up a little, moving to cut him off, forcing Grif to stop. “You don’t mean that.”

“The hell I don’t! What the fuck has Chorus ever done for me? Or you, or any of us? I fucking told you, I’m tired of this shit. I’m not doing it anymore! And you can’t make me! As soon as they’re finished patching up Simmons, I’m grabbing his ass and getting the fuck off this fucking rock!”

Wash bites at the inside of his cheek. Because, goddamn it, he can’t blame Grif. How can he when his voice sounds so torn? When his eyes are watering like that? When Wash is half tempted to help him steal a ship and tag along with him? 

“You don’t want to get back at them? You don’t want to track down Sinclair and the mercs and make them pay?” Revenge is the wrong button to push and he knows it even before Grif makes a face at him. The Reds and Blues aren’t like him. They don’t care about revenge, about beating anyone. 

They just want to survive, to get a fucking break for once. 

“No I fucking don’t! I just wanna be done, Wash. Why don’t you fucking get that?” 

Wash holds up his hands and fights down a wince. “I do, Grif. I do. It’s just… we  _ can’t _ be done yet. We can’t leave until the others are alright and… and even then, do you honestly think we’d make it off the planet without getting shot down? Think about it, Grif. The mercs brought down our ship once before, what’s to stop them doing it again?”

That at least seems to strike a chord and Grif’s shoulders slump a little, some of the fight slowly leaving him. He drags a hand over his face, the one Wash knows he got from Simmons, pale and freckly and looking rather odd against the warm brown of his jaw. “I’m just so fucking done, man. If Simmons doesn’t…”

He makes a choked off sound and cuts himself off, shaking his head. Wash doesn’t know what he’s doing, but the next thing he knows, he’s stepped forward and thrown his arms around Grif’s surprisingly broad shoulders. For the gut he’s got, there’s a surprising amount of muscle to Grif, his arms strong and firm when they wrap around Wash’s middle as he buries his face into his chest. 

“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now,” he says softly.

There’s a muffled noise from Grif that’s a little too wet to be a laugh. “Yeah you can. I’ve see you and Tucker. Y’all ain’t subtle, Wash.” 

Wash finds himself laughing a little at that as he gently rubs Grif’s back. “I guess that’s not really our strong suit.”

“No fucking shit, dude. Just glad I bet on you. Simmons figured Tucker wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself, but I knew you’d be the one to break after some kinda sappy, emotional bullshit.” Grif pulls back a little and his eyes are wet, but there’s something like a smile on his face. 

Wash feels a the tight ball of pain and nerves in his chest unwind ever so slightly. “You’ve got me there. Did Tucker uh… did he tell you how it happened?”

Grif shrugs. “Probably, but I don’t think I was listening. The story’s probably better from you anyway. Knowing Tucker, his version would have you in fucking stockings and a maid outfit throwing yourself at him after he saved the city single handed.”

The laugh that bursts out of Wash is clearly a surprise to both of them, but Grif manages to echo it, only sounding the faintest bit strained. 

They spend a while talking. Wash isn’t entirely sure he’s convinced Grif not to pack up and leave, but he gets him to at least walk back toward the infirmary with him. Carolina meets them in the waiting room. It’s not much of a surprise that Caboose wheels Sarge in a few minutes later. Word spreads fast. 

Grif leans heavily against Wash’s side, poking at his datapad, Caboose against the other as Wash sighs and begins typing up a report for the generals. They’re going to need to know what happened. It’s going to crush Doyle, he can already tell. Sinclair was his right hand for so long… she probably knows everything. 

And that hits him like a metric ton of bricks, nearly sending the wind out of him as he leans back in his chair. God, they’re so screwed. He should go to the generals now, start making plans on how to deal with this. 

Dragging a hand over his face, Wash forces himself to breathe. He looks around, finding Grif looking at old pictures of himself and Simmons on his datapad, Caboose dozing against his shoulder, Carolina sitting next to Sarge, holding his hand as the pair of them talk in low voices. 

One step at a time. They need to make it through this first. Once they put themselves back together, they can start on Chorus again. Because Wash is tired of sitting around and waiting for things to happen. 

From now on, they’re going on the offensive. 

* * *

 

**End of Part One**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this wraps up part one! I'll have an interlude for you next week. Thank you so much to everyone who's been keeping up with this story, the response really means so much! A lot of you got it right on, it's been the plan since day one for Sinclair to turn traitor. If anyone wants to know more about her of the other OCs in this story, feel free to message me on tumblr, I'm always happy to talk about them or anything else in this story.
> 
> Part of the reason behind this plotline and this story in general is that I want to explore things with Chorus. Because there's no easy fix for them. A bandaid can't just be slapped over that conflict, and I really wanted to get into that here. I'm not sure how I've done with that, but that's going to be a continuing theme in this story and probably most of the other stuff I write that takes place on Chorus. But anyway, thank you so much to everyone who's been commenting, I appreciate it so much, you guys really keep me going!


	23. Interlude: Somebody Made You Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Unhealthy relationship dynamics, mentions of off screen torture

The marks on Locus’ skin have always been a burden, he realizes that now. There had been a time once, back before he knew the truth of the world, when he had thought they might be a blessing, when everyone had told him as much. 

_ You’re so lucky to have so many.  _

_ That’s so many people you’re going to meet, aren’t you excited? _

_ You’re going to touch so many lives, Sam.  _

And he did. And one by one, they burned. 

The first had been a shock, painful and sudden. It’s not a feeling someone can ever get used to, feeling like a piece of them has been torn away. So bit by bit, Sam burned with them. They’re almost like a countdown. How many more people will he touch, will he connect with, will he lose before he’s burned away himself.

There’s only two left now. Orange and gray. 

If only either of them meant anything. 

Agent Washington is a fool, but a noble one. He could’ve been the best and yet he fights a fruitless battle, a leader for the outcasts and the underdogs. That must make it easy for Washington to think himself a hero now. 

He can’t understand. Not yet. He has too much left to lose. 

There’s familiar footsteps behind him and Locus rolls his sleeve back down before he turns, finding Felix halfway to him. “What?”

Felix stops midstep and scowls. “Oh come on, I was being quiet that time. How’d you know I was coming?”

“You’ve never learned to stop breathing through your mouth. Now what is it? Has Price finished with Sinclair?”

Huffing, Felix rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, he finished picking her brain twenty minutes ago.”

Locus waits for a moment. Of course Felix is going to make him ask him to run his mouth. “And?”

“Well, she definitely wants us dead, especially me, but even more especially you. Guess you killed her brother or something? Nice going there, big guy.”

Taking a breath through his nose, Locus counts to five in his head. “Did he find out anything useful?”

“Jeez, I’m getting there, you’re always so impatient. Alright, so yeah she hates us, but she hates the New Republic and Kimball even more and she’ll do just about anything to get off this planet with a couple of her little friends, so as long as we don’t kill them--which I mean is like probably fifty-fifty right now--she’ll probably be loyal enough. Price asked her some stuff we already knew and she hasn’t lied yet, so we can probably at least use some of her info.”

“Hmm, better than nothing. Everything she tells us should still be taken with a grain of salt.” Locus heads down the hall. He had been in his usual spot, staring out one of the many vast windows of the building. There’s not much to see outside from this spot, which is why he’s rarely disturbed. 

Though Felix has never had much trouble when it comes to disturbing him, even if he says that staring out that window is about as interesting as watching paint dry. He can’t see what Locus can, the places where things used to be. He doesn’t care to. 

Sometimes Locus almost envies that. 

His footsteps echo as they move down the hallway, as do Felix’s. They want to be heard. There are benefits to the element of surprise, but intimidation has its uses as well. Though he has to wonder how far that will go here. Threats work best on someone who still has something left to lose, and despite what Felix says to the contrary, someone who betrays their people has very little to return to. 

The building they’ve taken was once a school of some sort, perhaps a university building. By the time they had arrived, the war had already wiped it clean of anything it could have been before. Price seems to like it, though Felix insists the alien temples are more exciting. It’s… serviceable. There are rooms for the men and acceptable fortifications, not that Locus expects they’ll stay long enough to need them. 

Their new apparent ally is being kept in what was once an old office. Apparently schools don’t have much call for barred cells. Another reason to move on sooner rather than later. Price does so love his little plans. Admittedly there are...pieces to this one that are intriguing.    


And another one may have just fallen into place a bit ahead of schedule. 

Felix grabs at his shoulder, pulling him back. Locus half turns toward him, brows furrowing until Felix slips right past him to get to the door first. Of course. He forces himself not to roll his eyes as Felix throws open the door with unnecessary aggression so it bangs off the wall. 

Both occupants of the room look up, seemingly unphased. Unnecessary and ineffective. Just as he expected. 

The room has been cleared out apart from a desk and a pair of chairs. There’s what looks like  teapot and a set of cups on the table between Price and Sinclair, who has one arm handcuffed to her chair. Apart from that, she looks almost comfortable.

Locus eyes her carefully. Her armor’s been taken, leaving just the kevlar undersuit, but next to Price and the strangely formal plain clothes he’d managed to find, she looks ready to charge into battle. Perhaps she is. 

Felix moves to stand at Price’s left should so Locus moves to his right, though Aiden Price is certainly not the sort of person who needs anyone to back him up. Locus has seen the work he did on the men running the prison ship they pulled him from. As far as he can tell, it had only been a week before Price had the guards wrapped around his fingers and ready to mutiny as soon as he gave the word. 

Locus is no stranger to mind games, and Felix is far too impatient and arrogant to let anything Price says get under his skin. He’s a useful ally… for the time being, which will probably last as long as their motives align. And Locus is certain there’s a time limit on that as well. 

“Gentlemen,” Price says, acknowledging them with a nod. “Thank you for joining us. Miss Sinclair--”

“Corporal,” Sinclair says, cutting him off. “Not Miss.”

One of Price’s eyebrows rises ever so slightly and he inclines his head politely. “Of course. Though, you are no longer a member of the Federal Army, so… would that not negate your rank?”

Sinclair’s eyes narrow, but she keeps her mouth shut and sits up a little straighter in her chair. Apparently deciding she’s not going to interrupt again, Price continues. “As I was saying. We have just had a rather enlightening chat. However, I’m sure the two of you would like to speak with her as well.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” Felix slams his hands down on the table and looms forward menacingly. And Locus is suddenly sure he’s only wearing his armor at the moment so he can give himself a bit more height. “Alright kid, what’s your deal?”

One of Sinclair’s eyebrows rises. She looks at Price dubiously. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already answered that.”

Felix pushes himself off the table and starts circling. “Yeah, when he asked it, but I’m the one asking now. What’s your angle here, sweet cheeks? You hate our guts, which… is understandable. We did kill most of your planet, so why the switch now?” 

Sinclair’s hand curls into a fist where it rests on the arm of her chair. There are faint marks where the cuff has bit into her wrist, though it’s certainly not tight enough to do so on its own. Perhaps her talk with Price was not as peaceful as Felix was led to believe. Interesting. 

“My plan failed and I was exposed. I would’ve been locked up as a traitor and forced to watch my people die from a cell.” There’s a bit of a bite to her voice. That’s promising, and concerning. 

“Oh, and what a plan that was.” Felix lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, kid, you almost had them. I really like that ‘blame it on the Freelancers’ bit. We should’ve thought of that. Honestly, kudos to you. We owe you one for keeping them all scrambling for so long over your little sabotages. If they’d hit us a few months ago, we would’ve been fuuuuuucked. Right, Locus?” 

Locus sighs. He doesn’t want to play this game. Between Price and Felix, Sinclair is going to be pulled in a dozen different directions. It’s almost enough for him to pity her. She’s hit rock bottom and Locus knows only too well the way that feels. 

Still, she chose to come to them. No one forced her to walk up to their compound in broad daylight to demand to speak with them. It was brave. Incredibly stupid, but brave nonetheless. Strange she didn’t find a place with those Sim Troopers.

“We were in a rather… unfortunate position recently,” he says, with a slight nod. It’s not as much as Felix makes it out to be, but they lost too many of their own in the attack on the convoy months before and then many of their recruits trying to secure a new permanent location. They’ve built themselves back up now, but the recent vulnerability was certainly a low point. Still, it’s doubtful Sinclair or any of the people of Chorus were aware of that. 

So much the better for them. 

Felix moves forward, hands suddenly grabbing the back of Sinclair’s chair. She doesn’t flinch. Locus can’t stop an eyebrow rising behind his helmet. His poker face has always been terrible. That doesn’t seem to be a problem for the corporal. 

“So, I guess you could say we owe you one. Although, I’m pretty sure we’ve already used that one by not killing you as soon as you set foot in this place. So, what me and my partner here are wondering is what’s to stop us from turning you back out now?”

“I can give you information. I know all their plans, all their strategies. With both generals still out of commission, they’ll be scrambling. I can help you use this time to prepare to finish them off once and for all,” Sinclair says without missing a beat, almost like she rehearsed it. 

Felix lets out a low whistle and rocks back on his feet. “Ooh, I like you. Merciless, I can respect that. A little over the top maybe, and I was looking for more details, but big picture is good too. Just things for you to work on for next time.”

Letting go of her chair, Felix wanders back around to lean on the other side of the table. He crosses his arms over his chest and tips his head to one side as if he’s thinking. “So let’s say we listen, you give us info, but how do we know you won’t turn around and screw us if it seems like your friends’ll take you back?”

“They won’t.” Sinclair sounds all too certain about that. Her spine straightens a little and she sips at her tea, apparently not bothered by that fact. “I have much more to gain by working with you. I hate you and everything you stand for, but… the New Republic started this war. Not you.”

“So… we’re supposed to trust you because you hate them more than you hate us?” Felix seems to consider this for a moment before nodding. “Works for me. But you should know, if we do find out you’re lying, we’re gonna round up anyone you care about and make you watch us kill them. Sound good? Good! Glad we’ve got that settled.”

Sinclair’s face goes a little stiffer, but she nods. So she does still have something to lose. Interesting. Locus has to wonder what… or who, to be more accurate. He vaguely remembers seeing her files back when he worked alongside Doyle. Most of her family had been lost in the early days of the war, though a few had held on until recently. 

He catches her gaze flitting his way, her eyes narrowing sharply. Right, Felix had mentioned… a brother that was his doing. 

Locus shifts a little, taking a step forward. “I trust you will cooperate? As long as you provide us with useful information, you will be allowed to live. However, you must earn our trust before you’re given free reign of our facilities.”

One of her eyebrows rises. “And how do I do that?”

There’s a low chuckle from Felix as he turns to lean on the table again. “You tell us  _ everything _ .”

* * *

Sinclair’s information is surprisingly in depth. Clearly she’s been ready to defect as a backup strategy for some time. Curious. If the Freelancers are able to create an environment that would allow such doubt to fester, perhaps the people of Chorus can be eliminated more easily than expected. 

If only that were still the plan. 

But Price has his theories and their employer quite likes where they lead. It requires less bloodshed and more careful planning and strategy, so naturally Felix despises it and Price for coming up with it in the first place. While his partner can play the long game when it suits him, patience is not one of Felix’s virtues. He… doesn’t have any of those really.

Perhaps that’s not fair. Felix has his moments as few and far between as they are. 

At least he’s capable of staying focused and organizing the men as they prepare to move again. Though there had been no sign of a tracker on Sinclair, if she could find them, there’s no doubt that others could do the same. At least they’ve already found another acceptable location, one a bit closer to their target. 

There’s an uneasy feeling that comes with turning his focus away from Armonia, away from Agent Washington, but orders are orders. He will be the good soldier, loyal to the end. That is his purpose. 

He stands back, watching with discerning eyes as the men begin to pack away the weapons. It shouldn’t take long to move out. The newest batch of recruits are mostly former guards or prisoners that Price has wrapped tight around his finger. They’re certainly efficient, moving with a sort of nervous energy, almost like they’re afraid. Locus almost wonders just what Price did to them before deciding it’s best not to know. Somehow he doubts Felix could ever accomplish that with his knives. 

Despite the losses attacking the convoy, they have more than enough vehicles to move their forces. From his place on the landing looking down on all of them, Locus makes careful mental notes. With Price gaining so much favor with Control, any stragglers or recruits that may present a problem are to be reported directly to him. 

“Creeping on the guys now, partner?” Felix’s drawl cuts through his thoughts as he slides down the railing of the stairs and lands a few feet away. “I mean, better than just reading Washington’s file over and over again, but you’ve seriously gotta get a new hobby, Locs. Ever think about knitting? Seems like it’d be your thing.”

“Only if I could make you a muzzle.” It’s usually better to ignore Felix’s idle jabs, but Locus is restless. They’ve been hiding away for far too long. He can barely remember the last time he lined up a shot at anything that wasn’t a target. Another one of Price’s new protocols. Apparently he and Felix are control’s greatest assets on Chorus, for the time being anyway, so they can’t be allowed to much exposure. 

Better to stay back, lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. 

Felix chuckles and slaps his shoulders. “Oh, don’t you  _ tease _ me, Lo. You know how I love it when you talk dirty.”

Locus lets out a slow breath through his nose and almost wishes he wasn’t wearing his helmet so Felix could properly appreciate the intensity of his eye roll. “You remember the rule, Felix. No come ons unless you can prove that you’ve showered in the last twenty-four hours, and I know for a fact that you haven’t.”

Still, the urge to slam his partner against the wall to get a few blessed minutes of peace and quiet is a tempting one. But the silence never lasts. Some days, Felix’s incessant chatter is almost pleasant, something to quell the noise in his head or distract from it at least, but at the moment, it’s just putting him even more on edge. 

The new base is suitable, but it hasn’t been properly secured. It’s not exactly close either. They’re more than a days’ travel away, even with the pelicans. And Price has opted to let the men stop and rest on the way there instead of pushing through all night. They’ll be leaving themselves open to an ambush. As much as he doubts the people of Chorus being capable of that, it’s left an anxious tick in his fingers that he can’t stop. 

Felix laughs again and moves to lean against the railing next to him, watching the men mill about the hall like ants. “Now you’re just being cruel. And you know there’s no fucking hot water here. What am I supposed to do? Not all of us like freezing our asses off.”

Again Locus rolls his eyes. It’s at least the seventh time he’s done so today, though that’s nowhere near the record. He kept track once, his helmet monitoring the motion of his eyes. Sharing the result with Felix had been a mistake as he’d made a conscious effort to double the amount the next day. 

“We’re in a warzone, Felix. Did you expect luxuries?”

“Well, I mean, yeah kinda. The whole planet is a fucking warzone, you’d think we could’ve at least picked a place to camp out that had working plumbing.” He can hear the pout in Felix’s voice and he rolls his eyes yet again. 

“The fact that there’s any water here at all is fortunate enough and you would do well to remember that.” Locus glances at Felix from the corner of his eye and relents a little. “I am told that our next facility may be slightly less austere.”

For some reason, he’s sure Felix is glaring at him. “What?”

After a moment, Felix huffs and shakes his head. “You’ve been spending way too much time with that Price asshole, since when do you say ‘austere’? I bet you don’t even know what that means.”

Maybe he will break the eye roll record today after all. “Of course I do. Being inarticulate isn’t a prerequisite for being a mercenary despite what you might think.” 

“I think you just sound like a pretentious asshole right now and you wanna suck up to dad’s new favorite kid to get a little extra allowance.” Felix draws closer and jabs a finger at his chest plate. “Now, am I wrong?”

Locus bats away his hand, not dignifying that with a response.There’s nothing he can say that Felix will take well or without gloating. Let him think what he wants. Following orders doesn’t make him a sycophant. “Price is in charge now. The sooner you accept that, the better. We need his trust if we want to be allowed to do anything.”

Felix waves a hand dismissively, moving to lean back against the railing, back to the men, leaving himself exposed. “Yeah, yeah, you’re just making excuses to snuggle up with your new best friend. Just don’t forget who’s really important here.”

And he presses his hand to Locus’ chest plate. Though there’s layers of armor and kevlar between them, it still almost makes him shudder as if Felix was touching the orange mark splaying over his skin. Felix knows him too well. Knows exactly what strings to pull. Even knowing exactly what he’s doing, Locus can’t stop the rush of nerves or the way his heart beats a little faster. He hates it and craves it all at once, that Felix can do so much with so little. 

The army may belong to Price, but Locus knows where his loyalties lie. If only he could say the same about his partner. 

It’s a strange thing, when a mark only goes one way. Before he found Felix, Locus hadn’t believed it was possible, but there was no denying it once he’d seen the other man stripped down and found him not only missing the sage green of his own mark, but any others at all. Felix leaves his marks wherever he likes (Locus remembers the way he had crowed upon finding one on one of the Sim Troopers). And yet no one can do the same to him. 

Locus only wishes he weren’t so envious of that. 

He nods stiffly, unable to look at Felix for long. “Good,” he says, and Locus can almost hear him smirking. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your looming. Meet me in the basement later? Price wants us moving the prisoner out first.”

“Understood.” 

His eyes stay on the men milling about below as Felix leaves. He can’t help but wonder if any of them suspect what’s coming. A few have been allowed to guard the prisoner, though none have been told what he’s needed for. They had already had him locked away before Price had finished with his translations of the alien text. There had been plenty of options, Felix was quick to suggest plenty of their own who had don’t something to annoy him, but Price had made the call, saying the prisoner was the perfect choice. 

What better way to bring about the downfall of the Sim Troopers and the Freelancers than to destroy one of their own. Well… technically, he isn’t Red or Blue, but he’s still one of them.

And Locus has to wonder, will Agent Washington feel it when the babbling fool breaks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you so much for the kudos and the comments! This is the first time I've really written from Locus' perspective, so I hope it's alright. This ended up being a little shorter than I planned, but I think I've got all the big points across. And yes, this is canon divergent, but Price is still here, because he's too interesting of a character to just not do anything with. One of my biggest frustrations with canon was how little he got to actually do in season 13, and I've loved seeing other people expand on his role, so I hope that I can do him justice here!


	24. Turns Flames to Embers

It’s another two days before they’re allowed into the infirmary to see Tucker, Simmons, and Donut. Dr. Grey had been strict about that, insisting that they all needed rest, and… probably rightfully assuming they wouldn’t get much of it if the rest of them were allowed in. 

Wash spends the first day pacing the wall with Grif. They open a private channel and toss back and forth ridiculous ideas to track down Sinclair and take out Locus and Felix in one fell swoop. Maybe not the healthiest way to cope, but it keeps Wash’s nerves to a manageable level. 

The city is almost too quiet the next day. He spots dozens of awkward guilty looks from Feds and rebels alike. Apparently that rumor that he and Carolina have been behind the assassination attempt had caught on more than he expected. Wash has to bite back a bitter laugh more than once. Of course it would take something like this to convince them otherwise. No one can just trust anyone else now. It’s almost like being back in Freelancer toward the end, but Wash shuts down that line of thinking hard. 

This can’t be like Freelancer. They can’t fall apart. Not now. 

He spends the second day in Doyle’s room. 

It’s much like Kimball’s, slightly bigger than a typical patient room, though Doyle’s has one noticeable difference sitting in one corner. Wash doesn’t know whether to look at the chair or pretend it isn’t there. He’s been to a few of Doyle’s physical therapy appointments, but he’s… avoiding is the wrong word because he doesn’t want to admit to that he's been intentionally putting off coming by his room. 

Being there, seeing him in that bed… it’s not quite as bad as Wash has been expecting, but it’s still unpleasant. The atmosphere isn’t as heavy as he expects it to be and Doyle offers him a bright, seemingly genuine smile. He’s propped up on a stack of pillows, reading something on a datapad. 

“Ah, Agent Washington, delighted to see you. Oh, erm, I heard what happened the other day,” he says, expression suddenly growing much more somber as Wash takes a seat in the chair next to his head. “If I may, I would like to apologize on behalf of the Federal Army of Chorus. I still cannot believe that Jenny would do such a thing. I never would have allowed her access to such sensitive information if I had known that she was capable of--”

He cuts himself off, looking away a little sheepishly. “And of course I am so, so terribly sorry for what she’s done to your friends. How are they?”

“Recovering,” Wash says, once he swallows the lump in his throat. “Dr. Grey won’t let anyone see them yet, but she says they should all make a full recovery. But you don’t have to apologize, Doyle. They… they aren’t the only ones she hurt.”

“Ah, well, yes… that goes without saying.” Doyle nods slowly, one hand falling to fidget with his sheets. 

Wash lets out a slow breath, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now. I know the two of you were close…”

“She was like a younger sister to me. I did have one of those once… She, ah, she passed on quite early in the war.” Doyle pauses to clear his throat. “I met Jen about a year after. She wasn’t a soldier yet, nor was I really. I believe she had lost her father not long before that and I was able to lend an understanding ear, but there were likely plenty of those to go around. It seems everyone’s lost someone.”

“That does tend to happen in wars. Though that doesn’t make it any easier.” Wash shifts a little in his seat. Doyle doesn’t need to hear that, he knows. Hell, everyone on this damn planet knows. God, he’s so bad at this. Come on, think. Do better. 

“We’ll find her,” he says firmly. “We’ll bring her to justice for this.”

Doyle sighs and nods. “I’m certain that we will. Honestly, Washington, I would give anything for a chance to simply… speak to her. To understand why. I’ve seen her working alongside Kimball seamlessly for months, but to know that she’d been… bottling everything up for so long… I feel as though I failed her. I should have known something was wrong, but… I couldn’t see past my own difficulties.”

“It wasn’t your job to know, Doyle.”

“Wasn’t it though?” Doyle smiles wryly and shakes his head. “I may be learning, but I still have a long way to go to know how to truly lead my people. Maybe it was foolish to think that… a couple nice speeches and one good day would bring everyone together. You would think after so long Vanessa and I would be a little less naive.”

“You wanted it to work. I think a lot of other people did to. You can’t assume everyone else feels the same way Sinclair does. And I think the fact that you were so hopeful isn’t a bad thing.” Wash hesitates for a moment before reaching out to gently squeeze Doyle’s shoulder. 

He gets a watery smile in return as Doyle lightly pats his hand. There may be no physical indication of it, but Wash knows that they’ve left their marks on each other by now. And… for the first time, he almost wishes he had a few more marks. 

Hand returning to his lap, Wash shifts a little, trying to think of a way to change the subject. His eyes treacherously drift to the chair in the corner. “How’s physical therapy going? I’m sorry I’ve missed the last few appointments.”

“Oh that’s quite alright, Washington. I know you’ve had quite a lot on your plate lately.” Doyle seems to puff himself up a little, shoulders straightening. “I believe it’s going well. Dr. Grey says I should be able to leave the hospital soon. I er… I will be needing a new assistant to help with adjusting to things, at least at first.”

This feels like where Wash is supposed to volunteer. “Have you found anyone to help? I could always--”

But, to his surprise, Doyle waves him off, smile growing a little for some reason. “Oh, that’s very kind of you, Washington, but not necessary. I already have someone lined up.”

For some reason, Doyle’s face is suddenly a bit pink. Wash cocks an eyebrow. “Oh? And who would that be? Park?”

“Ah, no. It’s… actually someone from the New Republic. Are you familiar with John Andersmith? What am I saying, of course you are. You’re the one that had him take me here,” Doyle says, shaking his head a little. 

Wash blinks at him for a second before slowly nodding.”I see. Well, Smith’s always been very reliable. I know he’s been a big help to Caboose.”

“Indeed! He’s been by quite a lot since the incident and, well, it came up the other day that I would need a little help at first and he volunteered. John’s been quite a comfort to me lately…” Doyle’s gaze moves to the window, face definitely redder now, expression a little wistful. 

Oh.  _ Oh _ . Wash isn’t sure what to do with that. They’re… they’re friends. A little good natured teasing is probably ideal. Right. He can do that.

He smiles and nods knowingly. “I see,” he says again, tone a little lighter this time. “Well, it’s good to know that… relations are going better with someone from the New Republic.”

Doyle’s whole face goes red and he splutters a little, but Wash is pretty sure there’s a smile hidden in there. “Agent Washington, what are you implying?”

“Oh nothing general. I’m just glad you’re in such good spirits.” Rising from his chair, he claps Doyle on the shoulder. “I should let you get some more rest. If you’d like more company I’m sure I can find Smith--John if you like.”

There’s a huff that ruffles Doyle’s mustache as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You are incorrigible, Agent Washington,” he reprimands, but it sounds like there’s a joke hidden under it. And then his face gets a little less stern. “But ah… if you do happen to see John…”

“I’ll send him along.” Wash gives him another nod before heading out of the room, feeling better than he has in days. That’s… not saying much, but a little sunlight is poking through the dark clouds hovering over his head. 

* * *

Wash is half sure Emily instantly regrets letting them into the infirmary. He’s at Tucker’s bedside in an instant, gripping his hands tightly. Across the way, he can hear the creak of the hospital bed as Grif just climbs right in with Simmons. Though a glance toward Donut’s bed where Sarge’s wheeled himself tells him Emily’s probably willing to let them have a few nice moments while she makes herself comfortable on Sarge’s lap. 

Caboose bounds over and sits on the edge of Tucker’s bed, completely ignoring the other chair that Grey definitely hadn’t left there by accident. The bed dips under him and shakes a little as he bounces on the spot. “Tucker! Tucker! Tucker! Can you hear me?”

He’s pitching his voice a little too loud and Tucker winces as he nods. “Yeah, of course I can fucking hear you. Jesus Christ, dude. I didn’t get shot in the ear.”

Caboose nods, looking cheerful. “Good. I just wanted to make sure. I thought that if your ears were broken too, we could have matching hearing aids. But you do not need that, so I will just match with Captain Creampie.”

Tucker’s face screws up and he makes a slightly revolted noise that turns into a laugh. “Caboose, don’t call him that, man.”

“Why not?”

“Just… just trust me, dude.”

Caboose tips his head to one side and glances over at Donut thoughtfully. “But Donut said he really, really likes--”

“Oookay, let’s talk about something else,” Wash says, probably a little too quickly. With a little awkward cough, he turns his attention back toward Tucker, giving his hand a squeeze. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright. Grey’s got me on the good shit,” he says, nodding at the drip next to his bed. “My leg’s kinda fucked up, but she says I should be good to start rehab-ing it pretty soon. Mostly just sucks being stuck in here again.”

“I can imagine.” Wash brushes his thumb gently over Tucker’s hand. He casts a glance toward Caboose and finds him resting his hand lightly on the bump where Tucker’s knee is below the sheets. 

Tucker frowns a little, brow furrowing. “You got any idea where Sinclair went?”

Letting out a breath, Wash shakes his head. “No. My guess is she went out to find the mercenaries. There’s no telling whether or not she actually made it there or where that would put her if she did.”

“Damn it. This fucking sucks, dude.” Tucker groans and shifts to curl up on his side. “She knows like… everything we’ve got going on right now.”

“If we’re lucky, she won’t find Felix and Locus.” Although Wash is fairly certain that if they were to suddenly get lucky it wouldn’t happen any time soon. And knowing Locus, it seems quite likely that they would be able to find Sinclair easily if they wanted to. 

“Yeah.” But Tucker doesn’t sound convinced. Really, Wash can’t blame him. Everything feels a bit hopeless now. 

Tucker shifts a little more,giving Wash’s hand a slight tug. “Y’know… there’s probably enough room in here for y’all…”

Oh god. Wash wants nothing more than to crawl into that bed with him. But Tucker should be resting, and really the hospital beds probably aren’t big enough for that. He’s torn. Luckily, Caboose makes the decision for him. 

It turns out, the beds are big enough for two, though three is a big of a stretch. The bed creaks dangerously as they shift around, but eventually, they settle, both of them mostly resting on top of Caboose, one of his arms around each of them, keeping them from slipping off. Tucker’s got a firm grip on his hand and only grumbles a little at Caboose as he rests his head on his shoulder. It’s a little cramped and he’s pretty sure he hears a medic mutter disapprovingly before Grey’s voice cuts in. 

Wash doesn’t think he’s tired, but when Tucker’s fingers start moving gently through his hair he finds himself drifting off. Caboose is already snoring under them, so it’s probably alright if he sleeps for just a little while. 

He comes to slowly what feels like minutes later, but it must’ve been longer. The infirmary lights have been dimmed. Soft snoring comes from Caboose under him and Sarge a little further away. But it’s the quiet voices that gradually pull him back to his senses. 

“--he started talking about you as soon as he woke up, dude. I dunno how the fuck y’all even kept it quiet this long,” Tucker’s saying, voice barely more than a whisper. 

There’s a soft snort of a laugh from Grif. “Not everyone’s as fucking obvious as you and Wash, man. I can actually keep it in my pants sometimes.”

“Aw, fuck you. We aren’t that bad. And we haven’t even… y’know what, nevermind.”

“Y’all haven’t fucked yet? Seriously.”

“Shut up, Grif.”

“Yeah, but this is  _ you _ , Tucker.” There’s a slight pause. “Shit, you must be really into him.”

Fingers move gently through Wash’s hair and he forces himself not to tense, eyes still shut, breathing still deep and easy like he’s asleep. He should probably say something, but… alright, maybe he wants to eavesdrop a little. He’ll pretend to wake up in a little while. 

“Yeah… kinda am. Shit’s been good lately. I mean, with us. How fucked up is it that like… everything else it going to shit, but--shit dude, haven’t been happy like this in ages.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault this planet’s fucked. Take the good shit where you can get it, man. Enjoy it while it lasts… never know when everything’s gonna go to shit again.”

“Guess you’re right…”

Maybe he shouldn’t pretend to wake up. With Tucker’s fingers still gently moving through his hair, he could drop off again any second. 

“Y’know,” Grif says after letting the silence hang for a few long moments. “I figure I’ll probably tell Donut tomorrow. He’s happier when he’s got parties to plan and shit. Keeps his mind off things, y’know? I mean, it seems like he gets stressed as hell, but I think he kinda likes that?”

“Seems like it. I kinda get that. I mean like, the training and shit sucks, but it’s something to do. Otherwise I just keep thinking about how much everything’s going to shit.”

“Yeah.”

They both grow quiet for a while, but he can tell they’re not going back to sleep. Tucker’s fingers keep moving through his hair and he can hear Grif shifting around on the other bed. There’s a faint noise from Simmons and then a gentle shushing, Grif speaking in soft, low tones that he’s never heard before. 

After a few moments, judging by the soft whirring from Simmons, he’s probably fallen asleep again. Wash hears Grif let out a breath. “I dunno, dude. I still think we should try and get the fuck out of here.”

“I know, but we can’t just leave. Like, literally. I bet you a fucking crate full of Snickers that Felix’d just shoot us down if we tried to leave.”

There’s a huff from Grif, but he doesn’t disagree. Tucker’s hand shifts a little and he continues. “Look, Grif, we’re stuck here till this is over, doesn’t matter if we like it or not, we’ve just gotta fucking deal with it. Best thing we can do is just get shit taken care of and then peace the fuck out.”

“Yeah, I guess. You say that like we can just walk on up to Locus and Felix and ask them to cut the shit.” Grif sighs. “I dunno, man. I’m just… I’m just tired.”

“I know, dude. We all are.”

There’s another bit of silence and then Tucker changes the subject. Wash listens for a bit, but h’s already nodding off again. The last thing he hears is Caboose’s soft snores and Tucker and Grif quietly arguing about whether Twix or Snickers are superior. 

* * *

The first meeting they manage to have isn’t as rough as Wash expects. Kimball’s in a sling and she greets Doyle with a pleasant enough nod when she arrives and doesn’t hesitate before moving to sit next to him. Doyle looks a little surprised, but leans closer when Kimball motions him too, the two of them having a quiet chat as a few other people file in. 

Since Caboose and Grif just about lost it when it was suggested they leave the infirmary before, Sarge is seated across from Doyle as a representative for the Reds and Blues. Wash is on his right, Carolina his left. There’s more people than usual, Park, Green, Smith, and a Fed with long, dark hair Wash recognizes from training, Adler--that’s her name. 

She, along with Park and Green look a little confused as to why they’re there, but all three of them seem to be following Smith’s lead, sitting at attention even as they glance around the table for direction. 

Apparently finishing her brief talk with Doyle, Kimball clears her throat and gets to her feet. “I’m going to get right to the point. With Sinclair’s betrayal, we have suffered a major loss. Pretending otherwise is naive and only going to slow things down. From this point on, we need to figure out how to best move forward, which is why we’ve called the four of you here,” she says, eyes flicking to the Feds and the Rebels. 

“Unity Day may not have gone the way we hoped, but we must stay a united front. To that effort, Smith has already agreed to take the position as new personal assistant to General Doyle. Thank you for that, Smith”

Smith snaps off a salute. “It’s my pleasure, sir.”

She shoots him an earnest, fond smile before turning back toward the others. “In line with that, Park, I know you were very close with Sinclair--”

“I had no idea she had any of this planned, sir,” Park says, almost jumping out of her seat, her hands slamming into the table. “I don’t know what she was thinking. Jenny’s always been stubborn, but I never thought--”

Doyle holds up a hand. “Breathe, Park. It’s quite alright. No one suspects you of helping her. From what Washington and Carolina have found in their investigation, it seems that Sinclair’s only partner was the sniper. I don’t believe any of us saw this coming.”

“Agreed,” Kimball says, nodding firmly. “The reason we’ve called you here is that… Doyle and I both believe you’ve earned a promotion or two, Captain Park.”

“Captain?” Park’s voice rises to a high,surprised squeak. 

“We know that it’s thanks to your work on the wall security that things have remained safe here for so long. Your work is honestly amazing. I know that this is a lot--”

“No, it’s alright! Um, thank you very much, sir.” Park salutes a little too energetically, hand nearly knocking her glasses off her face. “I’ll do my best not to let you down!”

Kimball exchanges a little smile with Doyle as she nods. “We know you will. As of now, Green is your lieutenant. I’ve seen how well the two of you work together, and we’ll need both of you to help keep things in working order here.”

Green shifts a little in his seat. “But, General Kimball, I thought I was doing better.”

“You are, Green, but you know more about the technical aspect of things. Once I’m back in shape to do so, I plan on leading from the front lines and you’re many good things, Green, but you’re not ready to be there with me. Captain Park is a much better fit.” Her expression softens a little. “Believe me, Lewis, I know you’ll be much happier working with her.”

Green hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Well, I do like working with the computers…”

“Good. Which leaves me down an assistant. So, Adler… how do you feel about working with me?” Kimball asks slowly.

Adler blinks in slight surprise, bushy eyebrows rising. “Me sir?”

“Yes. I was told you assisted Carolina in apprehending our sniper.”

Wash finds his gaze drifting to Carolina. He’s heard the story, though he wasn’t there for the dramatic capture. Epsilon had managed to track Sinclair’s communications now that they new what to look for and had found the Fed she had been exchanging messages with, a Private called Smalls, who despite his name was one of the largest people Wash had ever trained. 

Carolina had wasted no time tracking him down, though without anyone to back her up and cut off the escape routes, Smalls had tried to make a run for it, only for Adler to hear the commotion and quickly neutralize him with a few sharp blows. Recounting the story, Carolina had sounded quite impressed, which was really saying something. 

Even now there’s a little smile flitting around her lips and Wash has a feeling that Kimball’s pick probably has something to do with a recommendation from her. Not that she’s a bad pick by any means. Wash has seen her in training and she’s more than capable. It’s a good thought, certainly, picking a Fed to show that the trust is still there. He just hopes the rest of the city will see it that way. 

There’s a bit more discussion of their new positions before moving onto the next order of business. Wash sucks in a breath when all eyes turn to him and he rises from his seat, pulling up a few holomaps on the table. “Despite the recent events, we haven’t suffered major losses in several weeks. We’ve stockpiled a decent amount of ammo and weaponry. Now is the time to go on the offensive.”

He gets a mix of responses, which is about what he expects, but he presses on, pulling up a map of the surrounding area. “If Sinclair’s reached Felix and Locus, she can tell them all our secrets, all our plans. We need to attack before they get a chance to use them. If we can get them scrambling, we might be able to revamp our security system before they can start trying to poke holes in it. I know Park’s already working on that.”

She nods, pulling out her own datapad. “I was already in the process of transferring things to a newer system, which Jen--Sinclair wouldn’t have known about. It’s still going to take me a few weeks to get everything synced up though. So any distractions would be great. It’s uh… it’s a little tricky trying to update things when you’ve got people trying to break in.”

Wash nods and the points to the map again. “Here we have all known mercenary bases marked off. We’ve never been able to find their primary headquarters.They’ve doubled down their guard on crash site alpha, but the amount of people there make it seem unlikely that it’s their main base. My theory is that they’ve been moving from city to city to avoid detection.” 

He hits a few buttons, pulling up a few other sections of the map. Four cities are circled. “Given the information Kimball and Doyle have provided, these four seem like the most likely options. All four could be easily fortified and defended and have energy sources that would take years to expend.”

Pausing, he glances at Carolina and shits a little on the spot, letting out a breath. “I’ve also been informed by Dr. Grey that two out of these four cities are near sites where large amounts of alien relics have been found. If they’ve moved to either of those cities, they could be working to build up an arsenal, so the sooner we move, the better.”

The silence that comes after is stifling, but Wash doesn’t flinch as he looks around. After a few moments, Kimball nods. “I think you’re right, Wash, we need to strike back.”

That should be a relief, but he senses a ‘but’ coming.

“But--” there it is, “we need to know which city to hit before we send out our full forces. Armonia is still safe and we can’t send people to attack all four cities while still keeping enough of a force here to defend ourselves. What we need is calculated recon missions to figure out where they are and how to hit them hardest.”

Wash nods. “I agree. Trying to hit all the possibilities at once isn’t going to work. If you’ll let me, I’d like to put together a small, covert squad to investigate all four possibilities. Even if we can’t find their main base, we might find some indication of where they’ve gone or what they’ve got planned next.”

The generals exchange a look and Wash holds his breath. After a long moment, they both nod.

Though Wash has grown used to training, he can’t help but feel a tiny surge of exhilaration as they discuss potential squad members. He’s been cooped up too long. It’s time to get out and stretch his legs.

Things seem to be going well until Park raises her hand. “Um, excuse me, Agent Washington. But um… what will you do if you see Je--Sinclair out there with them?”

And Wash freezes for a second before very slowly turning his attention to Carolina, who’s watching him out of the corner of her eye. She’s insisted on going along as well and he can’t help wondering if running into Sinclair is part of the reason for that. 

“Our objective will be to subdue and capture her and bring her here,” he says slowly. “Her betrayal was against all of you. You should be the ones to decide what happens.”

Although...it’s a lie to say that’s all Wash wants to do. Her assassination attempt nearly killed Kimball and half a dozen others. She shot Tucker and Simmons and Donut without hesitation. 

Apparently what he’s thinking must show on his face. “Agent Washington?” Doyle says casually. “Would you mind speaking with me in the hallway for just a moment?”

“I--” Wash hesitates and then nods. “Of course, general.”

Doyle wheels his chair back from the table and out the door, Wash following along after him. The general waits for the door to close before looking up at him, hands crossed neatly in his lap. “Washington, you know I believe your plan is a good one, but I must ask something of you.”

“Yes general?”

“If you find Sinclair or Locus out there, you must not engage. I know that they have hurt you and your friends and I have no right to ask this of you, but… I am uncertain that you are prepared to deal with either of them face to face at the moment. I understand you’ve been ducking your appointments with Emily?” There’s no judgement in Doyle’s voice, but Wash feels it anyway.

It’s not that he’s been trying to avoid Grey, but… there hasn’t been time. There’s been too much going on, all the people she’s had to treat, who is he to take up more of her time? Alright, there was that promise to Tucker, which he shouldn’t break, but it’s not like he’s been to see her either. Most of the time, he’s fine. The nightmares haven’t been as bad lately and he’s doing better. Mostly. 

The problems he’s still dealing with certainly aren’t worth worrying Grey over when she has two whole armies to attend to. Time spent on him could be used so much better somewhere else. Could be devoted to helping Caboose adjust to his hearing aid or helping Park deal with one of her best friends turning traitor. 

“I’m not… avoiding appointments,” he says slowly. “I just haven’t really… made any.” And Wash can’t stop himself wincing at that, because… yeah, that sounds like a pretty pathetic excuse, even to him. 

Doyle at least doesn’t laugh at him or look disgusted, but he doesn’t seem at all surprised. People here are getting to know him too well, it’s becoming a problem. “I see.”

He clears his throat a little, trying to regain some composure. “In any case, general, I appreciate your concern, but I can handle myself in the field no matter who I come up against. And I won’t be alone, so even if something does happen, Carolina and the rest of the squad will be there to help me manage the situation.”

The general doesn’t look entirely convinced, but after a few moments, he slowly nods. “I suppose you have a point. Just… please promise me you won’t do something stupid and reckless?”

Wash offers a smile and reaches out to give Doyle’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “I promise.”

He realizes only once Doyle has returned his smile and they’ve both headed back into the meeting room that making that promise is almost asking for trouble. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little of my favorite rare pair has crept in here, whoops. I like Doyle/Andersmith too much, but don't worry if it's not your cup of tea, it won't be getting much focus. Anyway, thank you so much for the kudos and the comments! I've got a lot planned for part two and I'm hoping to finish the actual writing of this fic in the next two months, and once I've finished writing, I'll probably up the update schedule to twice a week, so fingers crossed that I'll be able to stay on track for that.


	25. Won't Finish What You Started

The first two cities, Eudora and Lykos look to be long abandoned, at least at first glance. Carolina finds a bit of old monitoring equipment and Donut and Jensen unearth a weapons cache, though neither look as though they’ve been touched in months. If the mercs have been there, it hasn’t been for some time and the trail is most likely cold by now. 

Praxis is the next stop. Tobin drives the jeep while Wash navigates and Donut mans the gun. Mostly to keep her away from the car, Jensen’s on the back of Carolina’s motorcycle relaying messages from Armonia. 

“General Kimball says to keep an eye on the weather,” Jensen chirps. “There’s supposed to be a storm coming in. Could get kinda messy.”

“We shouldn’t be long,” Wash says. “Remember, recon only. If you see any pirates, do not engage. Stick to cover and try not to go far from the team. The last thing we need is to get separated in a storm.”

The city is half built into a mountain, apparently taking inspiration from a nearby alien temple, one that looks like it’s mostly collapsed in on itself over the years. They find a cave a few hundred yards away large enough to hide the vehicles in. 

“I’ll scout things out first, don’t approach till my mark,” Carolina says, already heading out of the cave. “Sync.”

They echo her, the word drifting strangely around the cave. It seems to linger as the seconds drag on into minutes. 

“I thought we were supposed to stick together,” says Jensen, wringing her hands a little. Wash can hardly blame her. It’s been almost ten minutes, scouting the last two cities had taken Carolina less than half that time. 

“Carolina will be fine.” Donut’s voice is gentle as he moves to rest a hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “If there’s any pirates out there, I’m sure she can handle them, right Wash?”

“Right.” He nods, doing his best to sound more confident than he feels. It’s not that he doubts Carolina, but this is his plan. If something goes wrong, that’s on him. “Carolina is more than capable of handling herself.”

They wait for another fifteen minutes. Wash can’t stop himself from pacing, looking to the mouth of the cave every few seconds. Donut’s talking in low tones with Tobin, both of their voices carefully light, like they’re trying to pretend everything’s fine. Jensen’s followed Wash’s example, pacing the cave a few feet away in between pauses to check her datapad. He can hear the faint drip drip drip of water deeper in the cave and the crunch of rock under his feet far louder than he should.His own fingers are almost defeaning where they drum against the butt of his rifle.  


Maybe he should go out. Something has to be wrong. He tries the radio and gets nothing but static. 

“Damn it.” He glances around at the others and takes a breath. “Alright, Tobin, with me. Donut, you and Jensen follow at a distance for support. We need to find Carolina.”

Jensen comes to an abrupt stop. “You think something’s wrong, sir?”

Wash shakes his head. “I don’t know, but she shouldn’t have been gone this long and I can’t get her on radio.” 

He heads toward the mouth of the cave, hearing Tobin’s slightly heavier steps approaching behind him. Rain’s started falling outside, the sky dark and gray overhead. They’re two feet from the mouth of the cave when lightning flashes and a figure suddenly appears in the way. Wash has his gun up before he can think, but luckily he doesn’t pull the trigger. 

“Carolina?” He lets out a breath of relief. “Where the hell have you been? Why weren’t you on radio?” 

There’s a little huff from Carolina, who crosses her arms over her chest. “I was trying. I got into the city easy and started scoping things out, but when I tried to radio back, I couldn’t get through. Epsilon figured out something was jamming the signal, so we tried to find it, but we found something else instead.”

Epsilon’s hologram flickers into being dramatically. “City’s crawling with pirates.”

Wash’s shoulders tense. “How many?”

“It’s not that bad. I got maybe ten, eleven heat signatures. They’re pretty spread out. This isn’t their base, but I think it used to be. Seems like this group was sent back to pack up the last of their supplies.”

Donut must’ve approached almost silently, because he’s very suddenly at Wash’s side. “If they’re just here to get supplies, maybe we can get a tracker on them. If someone can rig me a sticky and set up a distraction, I can start tossing.” 

“That could work,” Wash says, nodding slowly. “I don’t know if we’d have time to rig something they wouldn’t be able to find. We don’t know how much longer they’re going to be here.”

“Yeah, my guess is like twenty minutes tops.” Epsilon crosses tiny arms over his chest. “Seems like they’re packing up the last of their shit. If we wanna do something, it should probably be soon.”

“What?” Wash can hear his voice go up a notch.

But Epsilon continues. “Oh, and Felix and Locus are here. Just fyi.”

“What?!” Alright, that’s a little screechy, but Wash is pretty sure it’s justified. “And this didn’t seem like the  _ first _ thing to mention?”

“Yeah, I can kinda see how that probably should’ve come sooner.” Epsilon sounds at least a little sheepish, but there’s no apology there. “So yeah, if you’re gonna do something, I’d hurry the fuck up.”

Wash looks to Carolina. “Boss?”

She hesitates for a second then faintly shakes her head. “Your call, Wash. This is your mission.”

Right. Damn it. Just breathe and think. Not a lot of time. 

He turns to look over the squad and takes another steadying breath. “Alright. Carolina and I will run distraction while the three of you try to rig up some kind of tracker. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just make sure it works. We’ll give you as much time as we can. Once the tracker’s set, we regroup here and head out. We’re not here for a fight, do not directly engage Locus or Felix or any of the pirates. Understood?”

There’s a chorus of “yes sir”s around the cave and Wash nods. “Good. Now let’s go.”

No more time to think and rethink as he heads out of the cave, Carolina right behind him. Wash casts a glance her way as they approach the city. “Your enhancements still on the fritz?”

“They’ll last long enough for a distraction,” she says, sounding fairly confident. Though he’s not sure she would admit to anything else in the middle of a mission. But the Carolina he knows is more than capable of handling herself against a couple random pirates. 

“Once we’ve got them scrambling, see if you can find the radio jammer. The sooner we get that taken out, the better.”

Carolina nods. “I’ll have Epsilon start scanning for it, my guess is it’s somewhere near the pirates vehicles. Once we’ve got them distracted, I’ll find it and take it out.”

“Good. Alright. If either of us runs into trouble, shoot off a flare. Meet back here in thirty. Sync.”

“Sync.”

And she’s gone in less than an instant. At least her enhancements are definitely working then. For a second, Wash almost wishes he had something more than the healing unit Tucker had insisted he bring along. But he knows all too well just what those little power ups need to keep them working. Yeah, no fucking thank you. 

Carolina makes a better partner for Epsilon than he ever could. 

Wash gives himself a shake and starts moving. Praxis isn’t a particularly big city in terms of area. The spread is vertical rather than horizontal… or it used to be. While dozens of skyscrapers still stand, there’s nearly twice as many that have crumbled, bits of broken dreams obvious in the rubble. 

For all the destruction, the city seems like it should be much older than it is. Doyle’s told him about it, how it was meant to be a hub of business and commerce, which lasted until both of those things seemed to start leaning far more toward one group of people than the other. Given some of what he’s heard on the matter from other sources, he can’t entirely blame the New Republic for taking action. Though even now he has to wonder if there wasn’t already someone there whispering in the leaders’ ears spurring them on. 

The pirates have approached from the north, something only possible through a series of caves on that side of the city. Wash makes his way in from the east, scaling a massive pile of rubble to reach the roofs of the still intact buildings. Stick to the high ground and out of sight until he can find something to make things a little bit loud. 

He works his way in toward the southern side of the city, eyes scouring the streets below for pirates. Down there, things are almost motionless, jeeps parked in the middle of the street, and a strange amount of construction equipment the closer he gets to the north side of the city. Weird how those… don’t look to be covered in rubble and dust like most of the jeeps. What the hell could the pirates be doing with those? 

Carolina’s numbers weren’t off by much and he doesn’t spot any till he’s almost reached the caves. Unfortunately the first sign of motion he sees is colored orange and black and he ducks into a nearby window and tries to catch his breath. 

Damn it. Of course it would be Felix. Oh well. At least it could definitely be worse, and he’s pretty sure Felix couldn’t have seen him. 

His radio crackles on and he hates himself a little.  _ “Hello Agent Washington.” _

Wash grits his teeth, hand going to the pistol at his hip as he glances about the trashed room he’s chosen for his hiding spot, looking for the slightest shimmer of motion. “Locus. Have you been following me?”

“You say that as though you were making an effort to hide. You’ve become sloppy, Agent Washington. Your skills are wasted behind Armonia’s walls. You should’ve taken my offer when you had the chance.” 

There’s a faint haze of movement, Wash’s only warning to shift out of the way before the wall he was just in front of is peppered with bullets. Too small, no room to move. Wash shoots in the direction the bullets came from and then grabs his grappling hook as he dives out the window. He flails in the air for a brief moment before firing and catching broken bits of balcony on the next building over. 

The yank to his arm as the grapple pulls him up burns, but as soon as he’s on his feet, he’s moving. Locus already has him in his crosshairs, time to go all out for that distraction. Wash darts into the building, one corner is blown out, leaving the inner workings exposed. No good for cover, but moving through is gets him closer to the pirates’ entry point. 

Rushing through dilapidated hallways filled with broken bits of drywall, Wash spots rusted bits of pipes jutting out of stained wallpaper. Nothing he can use. It looks like the whole place could come down any second. 

Wait. 

There’s heavy footsteps somewhere close, but there’s no time to look behind him. No time to plan. So he just grabs grenades from his belt. He tries to aim for areas that look like they might have support beams, but there’s not way to be sure until they start going off as he leaps to the next building. 

Wash skids along slick tile, catching himself on a broken bit of wall and looking back despite himself, feeling the strangest sense of satisfaction when the building starts to tip. There’s a horrible crunching sound as the top of the building lurches to one side and then one floor simply collapses, a huge burst of dust shooting out, creating a cloud around the breaking point before the whole thing starts to come down. Below, he faintly hears pirates shout and sees them start to scurry. 

There’s still nothing on any other channel as he cycles through the radio, so there’s no telling whether Donut managed to stick a vehicle with a tracker. But there’s no time to worry before an invisible fist clocks him in the side of the helmet. 

Staggering back, he shakes away the stars in his eyes. Damn it. Of course he couldn’t get lucky enough to send Locus down with the building. 

A rush of movement warns him enough to slide left to avoid another sharp blow, but he’s fighting blind and can’t avoid the knee that catches him in the gut or the arm that shove against his chest forcing him back against a rough brick wall. The wind almost goes out of him and he swings wildly. There’s a thud as he catches the side of Locus’ helmet before his wrist gets pinned to the wall beside his head. 

“This how you always say hello?” he says, voice a little breathless, but still even despite his heart hammering in his ears. “You know, you’re starting to get a little predictable, Locus. We really have to stop meeting like this.”

Alright, he’s been spending way too much time with Tucker. Just keep it light. Try to think. He’s got a few grenades left, and he’s still broadcasting on all their usual frequencies. Stall. He can do that. 

“Pointless destruction isn’t like you, Agent Washington,” Locus says, voice low. If he didn’t know better, Wash might think he sounds tired. “How did you find us?”

“Lucky guess.” Wash’s shoulders rise in a little shrug. “This isn’t your base, seems like you’ve all been moving around a lot lately. I figured it was about time we weren’t the ones running scared.”

There’s something like a low, rumbling growl from Locus, almost a noise of approval. It makes Was’s gut twist unpleasantly. “Striking the first blow for once, I can respect that. Too little too late, but still. You can’t still possibly hope to stop us, Agent Washington, not when we know all your secrets.”

Damn it. Sinclair must have got to them. She’ll be feeding them everything on a silver platter. Maybe they’re already too late. 

“Sinclair never knew everything,” he says, sounding more confident than he feels. “Don’t think you’ve won just yet. You know me, Locus, I don’t go down without a fight.”

“Believe me, I’m well aware.” He leans in a little closer, almost enough for their helmets to brush. “You might be surprised what I know about you, David.”

Wash’s blood run cold and he forces himself to take a breath. Locus has seen his file. He knew that. His name isn’t half as secret as he wants it to be. That doesn’t matter. There’s no one attached to that name that can be used to hurt him anymore. Locus is just trying to unnerve him. He can’t know that it’s working. 

“I don’t remember us being on a first name basis,” he says, carefully casual. “It doesn’t really seem fair, you knowing mine, but I don’t know yours.”

For a second, he’s sure he catches Locus by surprise. But and flicker of hesitation is gone as soon as it appears. “Your name is just the beginning. I can give you another, not mine, but I think it’s even more important: Cecil Kyle.”

And Wash can’t breathe. 

That’s not in his file. Nothing from before Freelancer is there anymore, just a faked glowing recommendation from a CO he never served with. How does Locus know about that? There shouldn’t be any records of that. Price saw to that. 

“How…” The word slips out before he can stop it, soft and too vulnerable and he’s sure Locus has to be smirking behind that helmet. 

“As I said, you would be surprised what I know about you. If you intend to bury your secrets, Agent Washington, you’ll need to do a bit better to make sure they don’t come back to find you. My partner puts it rather well. Everyone has their _Price_.”

Wash still can’t catch his breath as his brain connects the dots. Fuck. Where the hell did they find him? That can’t be what Locus means, but what the hell else could he be talking about? Damn it damn it damn it. 

Locus shifts a little, releasing Wash’s wrist, fingers moving to brush the side of his visor almost tenderly. God, he wants that hand gone. He wants Locus off of him. He has to get away. He has to make it stop. 

_ “--you there? Wash? Can you hear me? Tracker’s set, time to move out. Where are you?” _

Carolina’s voice crackling and rough, but there’s no mistaking it. They did it. 

There’s a little spark of hope that lets him move. His hands find a pistol and a grenade faster than Locus can get him pinned again. He pulls the pin and shoots Locus in the foot. 

There’s a rough, pained growl as Locus releases him, jerking back, staggering to one knee. Wash spares him only a glance before he lobs the grenade at what he sure hopes is something structurally important and goes for his grapple. 

He doesn’t stop running until he’s out of Praxis, doubling over at Donut’s side to try to catch his breath. There’s a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What the heck took you so long, Mister? We were about ready to head back in and look for you.”

Wash just waves his hand lightly, smile spreading over his face as he straightens back up. He’s going to have to tell Carolina, to warn her. But for now, they’ve won. And until they get back, Wash is just going to let himself savor that. 

* * *

“They found the tracker.”

Wash tries not to let his heart sink as he reads over the numbers and then tosses the datapad onto the table of the meeting room. He drags a hand over his face. 

The mercs had found the tracker about fifty feet out of the city and left it smashed in a cave. The squad that found it had also reported a rather crude drawing, probably Felix’s work, and a note addressed to him. 

_ There are easier ways to find me, Agent Washington.  _

Damn it. 

Alright, he should’ve known it was a long shot. They hadn’t been ready for that. The mission was supposed to be recon only. Actually running into the pirates like that hadn’t even crossed his mind. But it should’ve. He needs to be ready for anything. 

And now it might be months before they get another chance to come that close. Wash sinks back in his chair and shakes his head. “It’s my fault. I got caught up dealing with Locus--”

“Washington,” Doyle says, cutting him off. “With all due respect, please shut up.”

Wash does, blinking at him, too stunned to say anything more. Doyle seems to take that as a good sign, puffing himself up a little as he looks over the report himself. 

It’s not a formal meeting, just Wash, Doyle, Donut, Tucker and Smith clustered around a table in the room next to Doyle’s new office. The building the Federal Army’s been using does in fact have working elevators, but Doyle’s decided he prefers the first floor anyway. 

Frowning a little at his datapad, Doyle mutters something to Smith, who’s seated at his side, apparently taking notes. Wash ignores the kick from Tucker under the table and the nudge to his side from Donut just as he has been all meeting and resists the urge to sigh deeply. As much as he’s been drawing into the Reds and Blues gossip and wonderings about just how close Smith and Doyle are now (which honestly is his fault to begin with because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut about the way Doyle had blushed when talking about his new assistant), but this hardly feels like the time. 

Later though, once he’s feeling like less of a complete failure, he’ll dive back into the whisperings. Maybe it’s stupid, but somehow that makes it feel like… maybe someday things can get back to normal. Of course, that hope feels pretty fucking faint right now, but any little hint of normalcy is kind of nice. 

After a few moments, Doyle looks up and shakes his head. “My apologies, Washington, but I do believe you’re mistaken. From what I can tell, everyone on your squad acted to the best of your abilities and given your last encounter with him, well… I’m simply happy that you escaped your fight with Locus unscathed. Though his preoccupation with you is a bit worrying. Do you have any idea why he’s so fixated on you?”

Tucker huffs and leans forward on the table, glancing at Wash. “Is he still hung up on that ‘who’s the better soldier’ thing? You’d think the guy’d be over that by now.”

“Well…” Wash is suddenly aware of the fact that Donut is staring holes into the side of his head. Fuck. He knows. 

“Oh? Is that why Locus is so interested in you, Wash?” Damn it Donut. He has to ask it in the most sickly sweet voice possible. So he’s not getting away with it. Fine. That’s fine. 

It’s time Tucker knew anyway. Wash shoots a glance at him and feels dozens of tiny, dagger sharp rocks drop into his stomach. Tucker’s going to hate him. Maybe he won’t dump him right here. There’s people around. But Tucker’s never been shy about drawing attention. Damn it. 

Wash lets out a breath and shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat before shaking his head. “It’s… more than that. Uh, Locus thinks that he and I are connected because… because we have…”

Words fail and he just reaches up and tugs the collar of his shirt down a little, revealing a hint of the sage green splayed out over his collarbone. He hears a soft intake of breath, probably from Doyle. Donut’s hand gently presses to his shoulder. 

Tucker is silent. Not a word as his chair pushes back from the table and he strides out of the room. The door slams shut behind him. Fuck. 

Wash glances around the room, hesitating for a second before he half rises from his seat. “I’ll uh… I’ll be right back.”

“Go get him, Wash! He might be taking it hard now, but I bet you’ll know just how to soften him up.”

He fights back a wince. “Thanks, Donut.”

The pat on his back and the reassuring nods from Smith and Doyle help him hold his head up a little higher as he strides out of the room, but that morale boost doesn’t last long as he steps into the hall and the door shuts behind him. There’s no sign of Tucker, and for a second, he nearly debates heading back into the meeting. Maybe Tucker wants some space. Wash could hardly blame him for that.

But no… no that’s not how Blue Team works. Tucker and Caboose don’t want space, he should know that by now. They want someone to come find them to talk them through it, someone to say what they need to hear to push through things themselves. 

Too bad Wash is sure he usually has no fucking clue what to say to fix things. 

He should at least try to find him. Tucker probably has plenty to say to him. 

Wash looks around uncertainly for a moment before he hears a dull thumping sound. Brow furrowing he heads toward it. The sound leads him around the corner and down an empty hallway to what looks like a small office. The door isn’t quite shut, so he nudges it a little further open and peeks inside. Tucker’s leaning against a desk that looks like it hasn’t been touched in ages, kicking the wall repeatedly.

“You’re going to leave a dent if you keep doing that,” Wash says softly, stepping further into the room. 

If Tucker’s surprised to see him, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t even look over as he shrugs and keeps kicking. “So? Not like anyone’s using this shit anymore. Doyle can fucking bill me if he wants.”

“Right.” Wash slowly moves to lean against the side of the desk, still leaving about a foot of room between them. Tucker doesn’t seem like he wants to start, so Wash lets out a breath. “I should’ve told you.”

“Yeah, you fucking should’ve.” Tucker has one hand resting back on the table to support him. His fingers twitch like they want to form a fist. “Why didn’t you?”

“I… don’t know.” Shrugging, Wash finds it hard to stop staring at the floor. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react. I thought it might upset you. I thought you might… you might want to end things.”

“Well that’s fucking stupid.” 

Wash looks up sharply. Tucker’s still not looking at him, his eyes fixed on the wall, shoulders stiff. “I’m not gonna dump you just cause you’ve got that creep’s mark. I mean… that’d be a pretty dick move since… since I’ve got one for Felix.”

“What?” Wash’s eyes go wide and sweep over Tucker’s form. He’s seen… well, a fair amount of him by now. He’s seen pink and blue and gray and red and a half dozen others, he’s sure Tucker’s got even more marks than him, it never occurred to him to ask who the others belong to. That’s not done. Asking is weird, invasive. You don’t ask, you wait for people to say something. 

It’s why Tucker never asked about the green mark that he’s had to have seen several times now. 

“Yeah. Figured it out ages ago. I thought… I mean, I dunno, I thought you might have one for Locus, but I figured you’d fucking tell me about it.” Tucker doesn’t sound angry, just hurt. Somehow that’s worse. 

Wash lets out a breath. “I’m sorry. I… I wanted to tell you. Well, no, I didn’t want to, but I know that I should have. I never wanted to admit that… that he might be right. About the two of us being connected. If I pretended there was something else, some other reason, it was like--like I could forget about it.”

His hand’s drifted to the mark unconsciously, softly pressing there, though he’d rather drag his nails through the damn thing. “I thought that if I told you… I don’t know.” 

It had seemed so much better to stay quiet before. To keep Tucker from thinking he was connected to that monster. To keep Tucker from knowing that sometimes… sometimes Wash wonders if Locus might be right. There’s similarities between them as much as he wants to deny it and wish it weren’t true. Admitting their connected, admitting that he came so, so close to ending up like him…

Wash isn’t sure when his hands started gripping the edge of the table, when his knuckles started turning white and trembling. But there’s a soft brush of Tucker’s hand against his, settling over his fingers. Glancing over, he finds Tucker still staring down the wall even as his thumb gently brushes over Wash’s. 

“I’m still pissed,” he says softly. “But… I get it. Wish you’d fucking said so before, but… fuck, it’s not like I told you about Felix. Can’t really give you shit for it if I’m doing the same fucking thing. Y’know it’s not your fault you’ve got a mark for him right? We can’t control that shit.”

“I know.” Wash makes himself nod. Very slowly he shifts closer to Tucker, moving to rest his forehead on his shoulder. There’s a second’s pause before Tucker’s hand moves to card through his hair and settle on the back of his neck. His eyes slip shut and for a few moments, he just breathes. 

And then a thought occurs to him. “It’s not your fault you have one for Felix either.”

Tucker’s hand tenses for a second before giving the back of his neck a gentle squeeze. “Yeah no shit.” But he sounds strangely relieved. “Didn’t know what the hell that asshole was planning. He was just using it to fuck with me. Rubbing it in my goddamn face the whole time.”

Wash turns his head a little, shifting so he can press a kiss to the side of Tucker’s neck. “It’s not your fault,” he says again. 

He feels Tucker let out a shaky breath as he nods. 

It’s impossible to pick the marks that end up on his skin, Wash knows that. But he can pick the ones that get to mean someone… he can pick the ones he wants to return, the connections he wants to make.

“There’s… something else,” he says very slowly. “It’s not about the marks, but I think… the mercenaries have a new ally.”

Tucker shifts next to him and Wash can feel his questioning stare. Taking a breath, Wash shuts his eyes and does his best to steady himself. “There was a counselor in Freelancer. The Counselor. Aiden Price. When I ran into Locus he… he called me David and he knew--he knew things about me that shouldn’t have been in my file and he said ‘everyone has their Price’.”

“Felix used to say that all the time, could just be a coincidence.” But Tucker doesn’t sound sure.

Wash shakes his head a little. “No, I don’t think so. Locus… he brought up an incident, something that was supposed to be erased. Only the Counselor would know about it, and he would know exactly how much it would throw me off.” 

“Alright.” He feels more than sees Tucker nod. “So lets say they’ve got this Price guy, what’s that mean? Is he like a fighter or something? Like another Meta?”

“No, he’s much worse than that. Price doesn’t fight, I never saw him lift anything heavier than a datapad back in the Project. His job is--was to get inside our heads, figure out what made us tick. He learned how to control us.” Wash swallows and lets out a shaky breath. “He got us all to trust him, convinced us to tell him our secrets, and then he turned them against us. He knows everything about me, about Carolina, about Epsilon--”

Tucker moves so he can loop an arm around his shoulders and Wash realizes he’s shaking as he curls into him and takes a few breaths. His hands curl tight into Tucker’s shirt and he presses his face into the crook of his neck. It takes a few minutes of Tucker gently rubbing his back before Wash is able to calm himself. 

“So he knows all about how you guys were in Freelancer. What’s that mean for us now?” Tucker asks, voice even, a little softer than usual. 

“I’m not sure. He’ll probably try to manipulate us, probably through Locus or Felix, Price very rarely acted directly. Like I said, he’s not a fighter, he’ll stay out of reach and let someone else handle the dirty work.” It’s impossible to keep the bitterness out of his tone. He still has his head tucked under Tucker’s chin and he smooths down the place where he wrinkled his shirt with a vice grip moments before. 

Tucker lets out a slow breath that ruffles Wash’s hair a little, his fingers tracing idle patterns over his back. “Sounds like a real douchebag. Shit… you think he’s got files on the rest of us?”

Wash winces. Damn it. He hadn’t even thought of that, but Tucker’s right, the Reds and Blues had once been part of Project Freelancer. “Most likely yes. Since he didn’t have direct contact with you, he probably won’t know as much, but… I wouldn’t put it past him to review footage from your canyon to learn more about all of you.”

“Well shit, that’s just what we fucking need.” For some reason, he feels a strange sense of relief at Tucker’s worry and frustration, as if he was half expecting to be told he’s making mountains out of molehills. “What’s this guy’s usual strategy?”

Frowning, Wash tries to think back. “In the Project… they wanted to set us up against each other, it was supposed to just be a competition, but I think they wanted to see how far they could push us before we turned on each other.”

“Fuck. Think he’s gonna try that here?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. He’ll have Felix and Locus and possibly even Sinclair telling him about Doyle and Kimball and the rest of the troops.”

Tucker groans and lightly knocks their heads together. “Shit. Well… at least she doesn’t know much about the rebels, right? And Felix didn’t hang out with too many of them, so… we’re just gonna have to think strategy and shit a little more...”

For a little while, they toss ideas back and forth, most of Tucker’s are half joking, trying to get a smile out of him. Wash manages a few little laughs and the dark clouds in his head start to clear. Tucker turns, shifting so he can press a kiss to Wash’s forehead. “You know that shit’s not gonna work on me, right?”

Wash blinks at him, eyebrows rising in slight confusion. Tucker goes on. “That whole ‘turning us against each other’ bullshit. It’s not happening, not with me. I don’t care what that asshole says about you. Us… you and me, we’re solid, y’know. I’m not going anywhere, Wash, you’re stuck with me.”

For a minute, Wash can’t say anything. There’s a lump in his throat and his heart is trying to beat out of his chest, but he nods and reaches to cup Tucker’s face. He leans in and kisses Tucker soft and slow.

After a few moments, he takes Tucker’s hand and pulls him from the room. There’s still more to talk about, more plans to make and they’re not done talking, but at least for the moment, the ground beneath him feels a little more steady. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a little bit more action here! I tried to put in a little subtle world building here, which I always want to do with this au, but it's sort of hard to avoid info dumping. If anyone has any questions about how soulmarks work or about how they change things in this au, feel free to hit me up on tumblr, I'm always happy to talk about my aus there!


	26. Shifting Eyes and Vacancy

Telling the Reds and Blues about his connection to Locus isn’t as painful as he expects. Tucker talks him into it. “You remember how pissed Sarge was when we didn’t tell him about the bullets? Caboose too, and I’m not dealing with them giving me the silent treatment again, dude.”

Which is a fair point. Caboose hadn’t exactly given him the silent treatment, but he had looked rather sad any time Wash was in the room until he had pulled him aside to apologize and offer a hug. At least that had made Caboose perk up significantly. Sarge had just grumbled at his apology and then waved Wash off so he could get back to work on his leg. The next day though, he had pushed out the chair next to him at breakfast for Wash and had a casual conversation about his latest theory as to the assassin’s identity. 

Wash isn’t sure if this is going to go over better or worse than that revelation, so he takes it one at a time. It takes Caboose a moment to understand, but then he presses his hand to Wash’s least favorite mark and pulls him into his arms. And that should feel uncomfortable, or at least a bit strange, but it doesn’t. If anything, a strange wave of relief washes over him. 

“It’s okay, Wash. I do not like all of mine either. Some never stop hurting, but the others make it better, so mine will make that one feel better someday,” he says gently. And for a few moments, Wash hugs back probably a little too tightly, but Caboose never complains. 

Grif and Simmons he tells together, because there’s really no separating those two now. Simmons still isn’t out of the hospital. Apparently Sinclair’s shot had managed to nick some internal organs, or… whatever Sarge had replaced some of his organs with. Wash doesn’t want to know all the details. He has a strong stomach, but given the equipment he knows most sim trooper bases were outfitted with, he doesn’t even want to think about what Sarge could have used as alternatives. 

Grey’s in the process of switching out some of Simmons’ older bits and pieces with more functional synthetic organs. Wash wanders over as she’s on the tail end of telling him about the next procedure. Simmons nods along, taking notes and asking questions, Grif at his side apparently not paying much attention as he plays a game on his datapad. Although, his hands keep pausing, brow furrowing whenever Emily mentions some new operation that’s going to come down the line. 

Wash awkwardly hovers a few feet away until Emily gently grabs hand and squeezes before moving off to tend to another patient. There’s… more people in the infirmary than Wash remembers. Looking around he notices that, for the first time, more beds seem to be full than empty. 

That’s… odd. And a little concerning. With his own planning sessions, he hasn’t had much chance to keep track of how the other missions have been going, but… from what he’s heard and what he’s seeing now, his guess is that it hasn’t been good. 

He slowly moves toward Simmons’ bed, awkwardly clearing his throat. They both look up and Grif waves him over, nudging the chair next to him. Wash moves to take it a little awkwardly, glancing between the pair of them before focusing on Simmons. “How are you feeling? I heard your last surgery went well?”

Simmons ignores Grif’s muttered: “No shit.” He sits up a little in bed to show Wash some of his notes. “Dr. Grey did amazing. She’s been uh updating all my organs. Not that Sarge didn’t do great building me in the first place, but there’s some, y’know, improvements to be made. Mostly little things.”

“Yeah, like your whole fucking nervous system,” Grif says, half under his breath. Simmons can’t reach to nudge him, so he stretches a little to flick his shoulder. 

Turning back to the notes, Simmons goes on for a bit, talking about a lot cybernetics and integrating them with a human body. Honestly, nearly all of it goes over Wash’s head. This has never been his area of expertise. He can blunt force hack his way into something if he really needs to or stitch up a wound when there’s no medic to be found, but this is on a whole other level. So for the most part he just nods along Simmons, making a vague noise when it seems appropriate. 

“It sounds like Dr. Grey has everything well under control,” he says, when Simmons seems to be done. 

Simmons nods. “Yeah, once you get past the whole ‘singing torture’ thing, she’s really amazing.”

“Plus you nerd out so much you forget you’re talking to a girl, so you can actually string a sentence together.”

Simmons goes red. “Grif! She’s not a girl. She’s… she’s a doctor.”

“Yeah, a girl doctor. Those exist y’know.”

“Of course I know that! But she’s… older.”

“Huh, for some reason I thought you’d be into cougars. Weird.”

“Grif!” Simmons almost breaks a lightbulb with that screech and Was wonders if maybe this isn’t the best time. But then a blustering Simmons turns to him. “So Wash, what did you want to talk about?”

“Uh, it’s… not really anything important.”

Grif eyes him suspiciously. “Did you get Tucker pregnant?”

Wash’s eyes almost pop out of his head. “What? No, of course not! How would that even happen?”

For some reason, he gets a shrug and Grif snorts a little. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Oh… right. Alien baby. He should talk to Tucker about that later. Some time when he’s ready to look at baby pictures for three hours. 

Wash gives himself a little shake, focus. “No, that’s not it. I um… I wanted to tell you something. Both of you. I know I should’ve told you about the bullets, and I’m sorry we left you out of the loop. And I’m trying not to do that anymore now, so…” 

“So?” Grif repeats, one eyebrow rising. “What is it now? Did you find another spy? Does Sinclair have an evil twin? Is Locus in the room right now? Just spit it out, man.”

Well, what he’s got to say isn’t nearly as bad as any of that, so he does. There’s not much of a reaction at first except for Simmons and Grif exchanging a weird look that Wash doesn’t understand for a few seconds. They seem to have a brief silent conversation before Simmons coughs a little awkwardly. 

“Well uh… thanks for telling us. We um, we figured it might be… something like that.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “You figured?”

Simmons shifts in his seat, looking to Grif for help, but apparently he’s not getting much. “It’s… well, I mean. Donut might’ve mentioned… something. About you and Locus, not the whole thing, just part of it, and well--”

“We’re not as dumb as we look, Wash. Sometimes we know what’s up, and we don’t give a shit.” Grif shrugs and reaches over to lightly pat Wash’s shoulder. “You’ve got a shit soulmate, that sucks, buddy, but as long as you’re not running off to hook up with him, I couldn’t care less.”

Wash manages to scoff instead of the embarrassing bluster that almost comes out. “Believe me, Locus is the last person on this planet I want to hook up with. It’s… given everything that’s happened, we all need to be honest with each other if we want to stand a chance.”

Grif and Simmons exchange a look and Grif cocks an eyebrow at him. “Okay is this more of your usual cryptic bullshit or should we actually be worried about something here?”

Taking a breath, he tells them about Price. They handle it about as well as he expects. Grif acts carefully nonchalant, but Wash can see the worry in his eyes. Simmons instantly starts typing and panicking until Grif takes his hand to ease him out of it. They start bickering back and forth and Wash decides to just leave them to it. 

He decides to tell Kimball about Price by way of Carolina. Although he might put off telling her for a day and a half after telling the rest of the others. She needs to know. Price and the Director had pushed her more than any of them back in the Project. She probably knows better than anyone else just what he’s capable of. 

But he needs to wait for the right time. Wash ends up picking a few minutes after their hand to hand practice. Tucker and the others head off to dinner, but Wash catches Carolina by the arm. She looks at him curiously, one eyebrow rising. 

“Boss, can I… can I talk to you for a minute?”

Crossing her arms, she nods. “What’s wrong? Is this about the last mission?”

Wash fights down a grimace. “How could you tell?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.” 

He wants to say it isn’t true, but… the other day he may have seen her coming and immediately turned to go the other way five times in a row. Letting out a breath, Wash rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I know. It’s… there’s something I need to tell you. It’s about the pirates. I think they’re working with the Counselor.”

There’s no immediate reaction, Carolina’s face stays even and composed, but her hands slowly curl, nails biting into her skin where she clutches at her own arms. “What makes you say that?” she asks, voice a little stilted and stiff. 

“Something Locus said. He knew things only Price or the Director would’ve been able to tell him, and, well….” They both know that only one of them is an option anymore. 

Carolina looks away from him, eyes narrowing. “How the hell did he end up here?”

“No idea. It could be whoever’s pulling Locus and Felix’s strings found him and brought him in, or he could’ve crash landed here the same as us. I heard he was arrested with the rest of the people behind Freelancer they found, but I wouldn’t put it past Price to find a way to talk himself out of a prison cell.” 

“If anyone could, it’d be him. This is the last thing we need.” Carolina blows out a breath and drags a hand through her head. For a moment she pauses, looking off in the distance, brow furrowing. Probably talking with Epsilon. He’s still in her head more often than not these days. It’s good he’s there now, Wash realizes distantly. 

After all, it wasn’t just Freelancers Price hurt. Sometimes, Wash hears his voice in dreams of memories he shouldn’t have. Telling him he’s failed, he wasn’t fast enough, didn’t do it right. 

Wash shakes himself, forcing the thoughts away. “I don’t know what their plans are, but I’d put good money on Price being here for us.”

But Carolina shakes her head. “I’m not sure it’s that simple. The mercs haven’t been coming after us as much. They’re disrupting scouting missions and getting int he way of supply lines and our number of injuries has gone up, but we haven’t had any fatalities. And if Price was trying to target us, why would Locus give him away? If it was Felix, I could understand.”

“You’ve got a point.” Wash frowns and rubs at his jaw. “Locus wanted me to know. He wouldn’t just let something like that slip. He could have been trying to get us scrambling. If we’re worried about Price, we might miss something else they have planned.”

“You don’t think he could’ve been trying to… warn you?” Carolina shakes her head a moment after she says it. “No, that’s probably too farfetched.”

Wash nods, ignoring the strange pang in his chest, forcing his hands to stay at his sides and away from that mark. “Yeah, he… he wouldn’t tell me unless there was something else going on, something we’re just not seeing.”

“For now lets just stick to staying afloat,” Carolina says firmly. “Did you read over those briefings I sent you?”

They discuss new supply line routes and possible concerns to deal with as they head to dinner, though Wash keeps turning bits of the conversation over in his head again and again. Locus couldn’t be trying to warn him. The man is a monster. He’s helped kill half this planet, he wouldn’t just turn on Felix and the pirates now. There has to be some other play… Wash just doesn’t have a single clue what it could be. 

* * *

There’s a weird sort of quiet over the city. More and more missions have been failing. It’s hard to find a table in the mess hall where someone’s not wearing a cast or wrapped up in bandages. That’s not the only obvious difference there. Meals are smaller, something Grif has muttered about darkly to no end, but with supply routes getting harder to maintain, they’ve had to start rationing everything.

The Reds and Blues table feels strangely smaller without Grif and Simmons at one end. They’re still in the infirmary. Simmons has six more surgeries scheduled. They keep getting pushed back as more and more troops come back from easy missions with missing limbs and massive blood loss. Wash is growing more sure that Emily is some kind of magician, but even she’s starting to wear thin. He can see it when he stops by to visit.

They need a break, some kind of good news. Damn it. 

Wash has Tucker leaning against his left, Caboose’s arm brushing his right. Donut and Sarge are across from him with Carolina and Kimball, who had come over with the lieutenants trailing behind like ducklings. Even with all of them grouped around, the table still doesn’t feel right. The room doesn’t feel right. 

No one seems to be talking in a voice louder than a whisper. Too scared to break the silence. Maybe scared isn’t the right word. No, it’s less that they’re afraid and more that… there’s no hope. No laughter. None of that usual brightness and life that’s been a constant for so long. 

Wash knows the troops are young, but looking around, seeing tired face after tired face, they seem so much older. 

There’s a soft noise, the sound of a fork hitting a glass, then it gets a bit louder and what little chatter there is dies down completely as every head turns to look toward the front of the room. Wash hadn’t even noticed Doyle wheeling himself in. There’s movement down the table as Smith rises, but then Doyle raises a hand and he stops. 

Doyle wheels a little further into the room, pausing between two tables to clear his throat. “Ah, hello everyone. I do hope I’m not disturbing your meal. There is something I need to say.”

He pauses, glancing around again, eyes skimming various faces as he takes a breath. “Things are difficult now, that goes without saying, and… with our day of celebration cut short, I feel as though we are still not truly united. Honestly, I am not certain the lines we’ve drawn between us will ever truly disappear, but we need to understand and accept that we are not enemies. Ah, General Kimball if you would…”

Doyle stretches out a hand toward Kimball, who looks confused for a moment before she rises  and moves to his side. There’s a questioning glance from Doyle and she gives a little nod before grabbing his hand. He squares his shoulders a little, looking slightly more confident now. 

“I am not a great military mind, there is much that I have yet to learn about being a leader, and through all my missteps here, General Kimball has stayed strong. She is valiant in ways I will never be, and I have no regrets over giving my legs to try to protect her. I have not always shown it, but she has my respect and she is more than deserving of yours. Which is why, from now on, I will defer to her. General Kimball is the leader we need, and I intend to support her wholeheartedly.”

For a few moments, the room is completely silent. Then there’s faint movement and Smith brings his hands together. There’s more motion from another table. Wash sees Ortega stand, clapping along with him. It spreads from there until the entire army is on their feet and the applause is almost thunderous. 

Someone kicks out a chair and, using Doyle’s hand for balance, Kimball climbs up onto one of the tables and holds her hand up to quiet the noise. She looks around and the expression on her face is unreadable until she looks over to Carolina and something in her eyes grows a little softer before she nods. 

“Thank you, General Doyle. I’ve been wanting to speak to all of you too. I know how tough it’s been lately, how hard it is to look forward. We’ve been in this war for so long, sometimes it’s hard to remember what’s waiting for us on the other side.” She turns slowly, looking from face to face. 

“So let me tell you about it. Let me tell you about a peaceful Chorus. Because it’s worth fighting for. We can rebuild our cities, our schools. Once we get these assholes off our planet, we get our lives back, we get to settle down… start families. We get to play games again. We get to sit and enjoy the quiet. We get to be frustrated with our jobs and happy when we buy something we’ve been saving for. We get to have normal lives, we get to have what we fucking wanted when our people came to this planet to begin with.

“It’s not always going to be easy. Putting things back together never is. Peace takes time, it takes work and understanding. But more than anything else, it only works if we want it to work. And I know you want that--I do. And I know how hard it is to keep going, but we just have to push a little more, hold on a little longer. Because if we can outlast this, if we can take these motherfuckers down and show them they don’t get to win, we can have our peace. We can have our planet back and we get everything we deserve and more.”

She pauses for breath, looking around the mess hall. For a second, Wash is sure every’s stopped breathing, hanging on her every word. Kimball seems to pick up on it, the tiniest of smiles on her face before she lifts her arms toward the ceiling. “So… who’s with me?”

And the mess hall erupts with cheers. 

It’s a good speech, Wash has to give her that, Doyle too. And he manages to return Tucker’s grin when he grabs his shoulder, gripping tight for a second before he and the others rush in to join the cheering crowd. He wants to get swept up in it, but he finds himself sinking back down at the table. 

“Lotta talk, huh?” Sarge’s voice pulls his attention down the table. He’s still sitting there, probably only half because he can’t stand. There’s something unreadable in his eyes as he watches Caboose pick Donut up and spin him around. Most of the crowd has moved toward the far side of the room, leaving him and Sarge alone at their table. 

“You think they don’t mean it?” Wash asks quietly.

Sarge shakes his head, pushing his tray away from him. “Nah. They meant every word. But they’re just words. I give a mean speech myself, son, and they don’t mean nothin’ without action to back ‘em up. Either of the generals told you ‘bout some grand scheme they’ve got to settle this?”

Wash sighs, gaze dropping to the table. “Not yet.”

“Figures.” Sarge watches for a few long moments before clapping the arms of his chair. “Roll me back to base.”

There’s a few questions on Wash’s mind, but he gets up and moves to do just that. Catching Tucker’s eye across the room, he gives a little wave and gets a nod in response. For all the problems they’ve had with not talking, Wash always feels a rush of fondness when Tucker manages to understand him without words. He should talk more, he knows that, but there’s such a sense of relief the times he doesn’t have to. 

With just about everyone packed into the mess hall or the infirmary, the streets are nearly deserted. The quiet is a little eerie. Wash doesn’t notice it as much as he used to, but Armonia is really quite a large city. And all their forces fit into such a small part of it. 

What was it like when there were enough people to fill this place? Wash can barely picture it. And this is just one city. He’s seen plenty in ruins, or worse, ones that have just been abandoned, left to stand silent and untouched, because there simply aren’t enough people to hold onto them anymore. 

But people aren’t dying anymore. 

And that’s… kind of strange the more Wash thinks about it, and there’s not much to pull him out of his thoughts now. Sarge is quiet, fingers drumming lightly on the arm of his chair. He has a feeling Sarge wants to talk, or at least definitely has something to say in any case. 

“You think they can win?” Wash asks after a few moments.

“No idea. But that wasn’t a plan back there, now was it?” Sarge is squinting a little as he shakes his head. 

Wash can’t really argue with that. It had certainly sounded encouraging and getting everyone behind one leader instead of staying divided with two would likely make things more organized, but… the plan still seems to just be surviving by the skin of their teeth. Which they’re still doing. 

“None of our plans have been working lately,” Wash says absently, only half in reply to Sarge. 

“Noticed that too, huh?” There’s an odd look on Sarge’s face as he crosses arms over his chest. “Figure that no good traitor’s been telling ‘em everything we’ve got planned, but… we ain’t dead yet.”

He doesn’t say it like it’s a good thing and… Wash has to agree. It’s strange. As much as he’s enjoyed the relative peace in the city lately, it doesn’t make sense. They’ve changed up things with security, but it’s not going to happen overnight, Sinclair still knows all their weak spots. So why haven’t they been burnt to the ground in their sleep?

“What are you thinking, Sarge?”

“Well, seems to me that our enemies have had plenty of chances to wipe us out, but they ain’t taking them. So either they’re giving up, which doesn’t seem likely, or they’re looking to do something else now. Something where it doesn’t matter whether we’re alive or not.”

Wash nods slowly. Somehow the fact that the mercs either want them alive or simply don’t care one way or the other after trying for so long to wipe out everyone on Chorus isn’t encouraging. What’s changed? Why now? It can’t all be down to Sinclair… even before Unity Day there had been a drop off in fatalities. Apart from the sabotages, things had been so quiet, and if most of those were her doing…

“They haven’t tried to attack us in weeks,” he says slowly. “The only encounters with Locus and Felix have been when we intentionally sought them out, and even then they haven’t killed anyone.”

“Doesn’t sit right, now does it?” Sarge tips his head back, brow furrowed. “Ain’t gonna make a stink about our people coming back in one piece, but it doesn’t seem right. Knowing that Felix fella, he’s more likely to send our boys back in boxes if he gets the chance. They’re playing at something, just can’t figure what.”

Wash nods, but he comes up just as blank in terms of his guessing. The mercs had been on the move the last time they had run into them. Though the tracker hadn’t stayed for long, it had shown them heading away from Armonia. Now, they could’ve easily doubled back somewhere further along, but it doesn’t seem likely. They were moving somewhere new, relocating their entire base of operations. But why? And where?

He muses as much aloud. Sarge tosses a few ideas out, starting with needing a better power supply for the death ray they’re definitely constructing (keeping everyone alive obviously so there’s more people to test it on later) and working his way around to ‘trying to lure us into a false sense of security so when they unleash the horde of killer space gerbils, we’ll never see it coming’. Wash can’t even bring himself to dismiss the ideas, since they’re still more than the nothing he’s managed to come up with.    


They get back to base and Wash wheels Sarge up the ramp and into the room he’s claimed for himself as a sort of lab. The place is a confusing mess, but Sarge seems to know where everything is and he gets right to work. Probably best to leave him to it. 

Though without Sarge’s more… creative ideas, his mind is left to wander down paths that get more and more disturbing as he goes. At least once everyone starts flooding back into the building after dinner, there’s enough noise outside to quiet the roaring in his head at least for the moment, but they’ve spent too much time not knowing. They need answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments! I know this chapter's a little slow, but there's big things coming soon!


	27. Hear Them Whisper As We Pass By

Dr. Grey’s office is even more cluttered than he remembers. Wash has to carefully shift a few stacks of files out of the way to get to the chair as she settles behind her desk and sets about fixing them both some tea. 

“I’m so glad you finally came by,” she says, grinning brightly despite the circles under her eyes. They really, really need another doctor. There’s plenty of medics on Chorus and Wash knows Emily’s been training them when she can, but it’s not the same. 

At least she’s in considerably brighter spirits now than she was the last time he stopped by. She pushes the tea across the table to him then tents her fingers as she watches him expectantly. “So, you said there was something you’d like to talk about?”

Wash bites at the inside of his cheek as he nods. “I had a few questions about--”

“Agent Washington,” Grey says, cutting him off, sickly sweet, a dangerous glint in her eye. “If you are about to ask me about another patient’s history, I’m going to stop you right there, sweetie. You know I cannot and will not disclose the information about any other patient with you no matter what.”

“But--”

“I had hoped that you were here to talk about your nightmares and other symptoms--which I believe to be indicative of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder--as Captain Tucker informed me you had made a promise to him about. However, if that’s not the case, you may leave whenever you like.” The smile never leaves her face, but there’s a worrying hint of steel to it. 

A few more protests bubble up and then turn to ash on Wash’s tongue as his shoulder slump a little. He has been putting that off and he knows it’s only a matter of time before Tucker starts asking why he hasn’t made good on that promise. And saying that Dr. Grey has other patients to attend to won’t cut it there, because… then what’s to stop Tucker throwing that back in his face as his own reason for not going? 

He blows out a breath and drags a hand through his hair. “Alright. Alright, we can… talk about that, but then I need to ask you about Locus.”

Strangely enough, Emily’s expression doesn’t waver at the mention of the mercenary. But she nods and pulls a datapad toward her, maybe for taking notes. “Alright, Wash. Where would you like to start?”

“I… don’t really know. I haven’t had much experience with therapy before.” His hand drifts to the back of his neck as he shifts in his seat. A thought occurs to him. “I did have counseling sessions in Freelancer, but those were different.”

Emily’s brow furrows a little. “How so?”

Wash snorts. “Well for one thing, I doubt the Counselor had any intent of helping anyone get better.”

“The Counselor--he’s the one you warned the generals about, right? The one you think is with Locus and Felix now?”

He nods. Actually… maybe this is the perfect time to talk to Dr. Grey. Someone should know all his buttons that the Counselor could press. 

“Tell me more about him.” 

“His name is Aiden Price. We never knew much about him as a person, his files were locked down early on. I had no chance at getting access to them by the time I tried to look.” Wash takes a breath, forcing himself not to grit his teeth. “He was… a big part of the process that split the Alpha AI. I remember… I have the memories of what he did to Alpha.”

“Fascinating.” Emily doesn’t sound happy about that, and she jots down something on her datapad. “How did you end up with those memories?”

Wash takes a breath and tells her. Recounting… everything takes less time than he expects. At first, it’s like pulling teeth, every word rough and painful, but once he starts, it’s like he can’t stop. Everything comes pouring out. He tells her about the leaderboard, how they were turned against each other and made to compete to see who would end up with an AI, how they were told from the beginning that they were just fragments without ever thinking twice as to what that meant, how he didn’t even think to question any of it until Epsilon and by then… it was already too late. 

Emily listens, nodding here and there, occasionally asking him to elaborate, but never cutting him off. At one point, she reaches across the desk and gently grips one of his hands. It’s only then that he realizes he’s shaking. He takes a breath and continues, telling her about the memories that merged with his own, and the disastrous rescue attempt, and Epsilon’s choice when it all went wrong. As it all spills out, it’s like a weight slowly drifts off his shoulders, but at the same time, something ties itself in a tight knot in his chest. 

He can’t look at her, his eyes fixed on their hands on the desk. How is she looking at him? There’s going to be pity there, or worse, disappointment that he didn’t tell her before, or that he let so much of it happen. Wash doesn’t want to see it. But he can’t make his mouth stop working, make the words stop flowing. It’s too late anyway. 

Another cup of tea is passed his way along with a plate of cookies. He’s… not sure why she has that, or where she was keeping it, but he doesn’t ask questions. They’re good cookies in any case. 

It’s not until he’s finished speaking and is on his third cookie that Emily clears her throat and sits up a little. “First, let me just say that I know telling someone all of this can’t be easy, so thank you, Wash, for trusting me with this.”

He manages to return her smile. There’s still a tight knot tied in his chest, but it eases a little as he risks a glance at her face and finds her eyes soft and warm, not a trace of pity there. Breathing gets a little easier. 

“I’ve never told anyone all of it. Tucker knows bits and pieces… that I have memories that aren’t mine, but… I haven’t told him about Epsilon.” He can’t. Tucker doesn’t need to know. Wash doesn’t want to think how he would react, what he would do. And not just with him… because he knows Tucker isn’t just going to leave him over it.

It’s… actually shocking just how much he knows that. There’s a confidence there now. If knowing about Locus’ mark and the fact that he’d lied about it hadn’t driven Tucker away, Wash is fairly sure nothing will. 

So he doesn’t want to think what that would do to Tucker and Epsilon. They just got each other back, he’s not driving a wedge between them now.

“Well, I can’t tell you what to do there,” Dr. Grey says, leaning back in her chair a little. “You’re entitled to tell him as much or as little as you want. I’m… a little surprised you’ve told him that much, if I’m being honest. But that’s good, Wash. Now you were mentioning Price before. Are there any things in particular you’re worried he might use to manipulate you?”

Wash’s hands curl into fists. “My temper. I’ve… gotten better about it, but he knows how to set me off.”

“What do you think he would use?”

“Anything to do with Epsilon. He knows all about my experience with AI, he could try to trigger the memories to take me out of commission in a fight.”

Frowning, Dr. Grey nods as she makes a few notes on her datapad. “Hmm, I can help you with some relaxation techniques to deal with controlling your temper, but managing a response to that kind of trauma can be difficult.”

“Believe me, I know.” He takes a long drink from his cup. Not enough sugar. 

“And you know for sure that this Price is working with the mercenaries?” Emily asks as she stirs her own cup, brow furrowed. 

“He has to be.” As he recounts the conversation with Locus at Praxis, Emily frowns a little and grabs her datapad again, flicking through it. 

“Strange… That certainly seems to be what he was implying there, but it’s odd that he would tell you.”

Wash nods. “I thought that was weird too. If it had been Felix, I could understand, but… it’s not like Locus to try to brag or flaunt an advantage. If anything, he should be trying to keep it secret.”

“You’re right.” Emily sets her datapad down, eyes still fixed on the screen. “I didn’t know Locus particularly well, but I had some experience with him while he was working with the Federal Army. He follows his orders to the letter, but… I can’t see why he would be under orders to give away such a valuable piece of information unless he was intentionally trying to unnerve you… which he easily could’ve done without revealing the source of his information.”

“He wanted me to know,” Wash says, slowly dragging a hand through his hair. “But the way he said it… it wasn’t obvious, it was just enough for me to understand what he meant.” 

Emily tips her head slightly to one side. “Almost as though he was trying to relay a secret message to you?”

Looking up sharply, Wash stares at her. He tries to think back. Locus had come after him alone, said just enough to get the message across without saying it flat out… like he couldn’t. Locus has always been direct. If he’s changing tactics there has to be something else going on. Wash is coming up empty. “But why?”

With a little hum, Dr. Grey bobs her head from side to side a few times. “There’s a number of possibilities. He could still be simply following orders and they want us to know that they’re working with Price for whatever reason, most likely to make us think that you and Carolina could become compromised in the field to stop us utilizing some of our best assets.”

Wash nods. It does make sense to an extent. “Maybe, but… I doubt that’s going to stop Carolina, and Price would know that.”

“A very good point,” Emily agrees, nodding. Her fingers skim over the datapad, a little furrow appearing between her brows. “Given what I know about Locus and his… preoccupation with you, I can think of two other possibilities.”

For some reason, Wash is suddenly unsure he wants her to go on. But he takes a breath and shifts a little in his seat. “What are you thinking?”

“He could be under orders to try to sway you to their side, or possibly doing so of his own volition. By giving you this information, he might be attempting to slowly earn your trust for… whatever reason.” She says is casually, but Wash doesn’t miss the way her eyes flick ever so briefly to his collarbone. 

It hits him then. She’s probably known from the start, when Locus first brought him and Donut and Sarge to the Feds. There’s no question that she’s seen his marks, and knowing Emily, she’s more than smart enough to make the necessary connections. 

But she’s never said a word. The knot in his chest loosens a little more. 

“That could be it, but… I don’t know. Locus has tried before and obviously it’s never worked, I would’ve thought he’d have given up by now, and it seems… odd that he would risk such an important piece of information for that.” Wash tips his head back, thinking. 

“I agree. Which brings me to the other possibility.” 

Wash’s cocks an eyebrow expectantly, watching as Emily shifts a little in her seat, setting the datapad down as she links her fingers together, both hands resting on the desk. “There is a chance this is a cry for help.”

His eyebrows shoot toward his hairline and he opens his mouth, but stops when Emily holds up a hand. “As I said, this is just one of many possibilities. I’m sure there’s plenty of reasons that might never cross my mind, but if Locus were to look for help to get out of his present set of circumstances, do you think that he would go to anyone else?”

She’s got a point. It’s not as though there are many people on this planet that would welcome Locus with open arms. Of course, that’s not one’s fault but his, Wash is fairly certain no one’s holding a gun to his head making him execute a planet. But… it’s not the sort of thing someone just stumbles into without falling an awfully long way first. 

“Alright, but how do you see this as him asking for help?”

Emily looks to her datapad again. For the first time, Wash wonders… does she have files on Locus? If he had ever been hurt working with the Feds… she probably would’ve been his doctor. It’s a strange thing to think about. 

“It’s only an educated guess based on the following. He feels a deep connection you, whether or not you return that feeling is negligible here. Given what you’ve told me about Price and his use of your… pre-existing trauma and rather unfortunate circumstances to manipulate you,” she says, and there’s a new edge to her voice that Wash has never heard there before, “I wouldn’t put it past him to attempt to use similar tactics to try to manipulate Locus.”

Wash’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand…”

Emily sighs, eyes going to her datapad again. “I believe Locus is suffering from PTSD as well. While he was with the Federal Army, I treated him a few times. I was never able to get a full psych eval, but he displays many of the symptoms. I expect someone like Price would notice as much as well and have no problem using that to get what he wants.”

It certainly sounds believable. Price had pushed every single one of Wash’s buttons in Freelancer. Only after Epsilon and nearly going insane had he figured out how to stop letting him into his head… and even then he’d had to be careful. He could easily be doing the exact same thing here now. 

And Wash doesn’t have a clue how to feel about that. 

He leans back in his seat and drags his hands through his hair, both of them settling over the back of his neck. It changes everything and nothing. Of course Locus has been traumatized by war. Who the fuck hasn’t by now? That doesn’t change what he’s done, doesn’t make it any less horrible. 

But does that mean he deserves being put through the ringer by Price? Damn it. 

If warning him about the Counselor was a cry for help, what does he do with it now? Does that change anything? Locus thinks they’re connected, he thinks their marks mean something… mean that he can reach out to Wash to ask for help. 

“If… if that’s what he wants, what am I supposed to do about it?” He barely even means to ask the question, his voice sounding strained even to him. 

“You’re not ‘supposed’ to do anything you don’t want to, Wash,” Emily says gently. When he looks at her, he finds a strangely sympathetic smile. “Marks or not, Locus isn’t your responsibility. I know this is a lot to think about, and for all we know, all of my theories could be wrong. But don’t put that burden on yourself. Locus is where he is because of his choices.”

Wash nods because he wants to believe it. But he remembers all too well just where his own choices had put him a few years before. Behind bars, willing to do anything to get out, not giving a damn who he hurt to get free. 

His hand drifts unconsciously to the mark, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. “But if he’s trying to make different choices now, if he wants to get out…”

There’s a soft sigh from Emily and her smile is small and resigned as she shrugs. For a few minutes, they just sit in silence, though Wash’s head is almost ear splittingly loud. Dozens of questions go around and around and too many feelings to name have his gut tying itself in knots. 

They talk a bit longer after that, with Emily trying to steer the conversation back toward him and Wash a bit too trapped in his own head to get anywhere remotely constructive. An insistent buzzing from his datapad draws him away to go meet with Doyle and Kimball and he leaves, still feeling a little uneasy, though he manages to shoot Emily a little smile before heading out. 

His feet know where he’s supposed to be going, so he lets them get him there, too many thoughts still swirling in his head. 

What the hell is he supposed to do about Locus? Does he even need to do anything? It’s not his responsibility, he shouldn’t have to worry, but… he can’t get past it. Because it could’ve been so easy for him to end up just where Locus is now. Would he have even blinked at the idea of destroying a whole planet’s worth of people when he was at his lowest?

But that doesn’t mean he owes him anything now… or does it? Does any of that even matter if he wasn’t really asking for help? Damn it. None of this means anything if he doesn’t know what Locus is really after, what any of their plans really are. There has to be some way to find out… some way to get inside to figure out what the hell the mercenaries and Price have planned. 

By the time he gets to the meeting, a half formed idea is floating around his head. It’s not… the best plan, and there’s plenty of ways it could go wrong, but it’s better than the nothing they’ve been doing lately. As Wash thinks out the details, there’s one thing he’s certain of.

Tucker’s going to hate it. 

* * *

“This is the worst fucking plan!” 

No one likes the idea, which honestly isn’t a surprise. Even as he had hammered out the finer details with Carolina and the generals, there had been plenty of back and forth about whether they should even be talking about this. It’s a risky plan and he gets that, but there hadn’t been any better ideas presented. And the whole time, Tucker had sat there, staring him down, silently fuming. At least he had waited until now to blow his top about it. 

Wash watches Tucker pace with a sigh. He had thought best to get Tucker alone to talk things out, because clearly they’ve got a lot to sort through here, but he’s suddenly wishing he had Carolina there to back him up. Tucker looks about ready to put his fist through the wall. 

They’re in their room now. Technically it’s Tucker’s room, but Wash can count on one hand the number of times he’s been back in his old room in the last several weeks. It’s not as though Wash had much in his room to begin with. 

Tucker’s dragging his hands through his hair like he wants to yank it out of his head. “Seriously, Wash, what the fuck? You’re not doing this!”

Wash lets out a breath. “I have to. We need to know what they’re doing. You heard Kimball in that meeting. Our supply routes are getting cut off, we’re barely holding on as it is and we can’t fight back when we’re in the dark.”

“Then we can find out some way that doesn’t make you get your fucking ass captured.” Tucker turns toward him, not quite glaring, but looking like he definitely wants to. “Seriously, how the fuck does that seem like a good idea? Especially when they’ve got that Price guy working with them?”

And there it is, the one big hole in his plan, the part he’s been trying his best not to think about. He has a way around it. Maybe. But he’s pretty sure Tucker’s going to like that even less. 

“It’ll be alright, Tucker. I can handle Price, and… if things go the way they should, I doubt Locus will let him get anywhere near me.”

Tucker just stares at him for a second, then throws his hands up in the air. “What the actual fuck, Wash? So you’re banking on Locus being so into you that he doesn’t let Price fuck with your head? Seriously?”

Alright, when Tucker puts it like that, it doesn’t sound like the greatest idea. 

Tucker starts pacing again, hands in his hair. “This is never gonna work. Price or Felix’ll figure out what’s going on. And then you’re gonna be stuck there with all three of them and--”

“Tucker,” Wash says, a little more harshly than he means to. Rising from the edge of the bed, he steps into Tucker’s path and grabs him by the shoulders. “Just stop for a second. You trust me, right?”

A frown curls onto Tucker’s face. “No way, you don’t get to pull that fucking card on me. It’s not about trusting you. It’s about this fucking plan relying on fucking  _ Locus _ to keep you safe and I’m not okay with that!”

Damn it. He really thought that would work. Tucker’s played that card on him plenty of times now. But he does have a point. A lot of this is riding on Wash’s assumptions about what Locus may or may not do, and that’s… a pretty big gamble. It should work. In theory.

Wash sighs. His hands grow gentler, lightly rubbing at Tucker’s arms. “I know it’s a big risk, but we don’t have a lot of options here. We can’t keep waiting and waiting to see what they’re going to do next. We need to know what they’re planning. This is the only way.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking suck.” But Tucker’s shoulders slump in defeat and he leans forward a little. Wash lets him, arms wrapping around his waist as Tucker leans into his chest. “I still hate this.”

“I know. Believe me, if I could think of any other way… being their prisoner isn’t exactly something I’m looking forward to. But hopefully it won’t be for long. Carolina will follow when they take me and get me out as soon as possible if things look like they’re going bad.” 

Tucker makes a vague noise that still doesn’t sound particularly pleased. Pulling back a little, Wash reaches up to cup his face, thumb gently brushing over his cheek. God he looks so tired. Then again, Wash probably doesn’t have any room to speak. He’s suddenly reminded just why he put off telling Tucker about his plan in the first place. 

“It won’t be for long,” he says again, hoping he’s right. “As soon as I can get anything useful out of Locus, I’ll get a signal to Carolina and have her get me out. She’s not going to let me stay there a second longer than necessary.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Tucker huffs, his eyes flicking over Wash’s face. “You’re not gonna get me to be happy about this, dude. I get why and everything. This shit making sense doesn’t mean it’s not risky as fuck.”

“I know, I’m not doing this lightly. If there was any other way--”

Tucker cuts him off with an irritated noise as he presses his face into Wash’s shoulder. He winds his arms around Tucker and just holds him for a while. It suddenly occurs to Wash that… he might not get to do this for some time. Maybe weeks, and that’s assuming this goes the way it’s supposed to. For a few long moments, he holds Tucker very tightly, one hand smoothing over the planes of his back, trying to memorize the way he feels pressed against his chest. 

Wash breathes in deep. Tucker smells like the weird cinnamon toothpaste he likes and the fruity shampoo he steals from Donut. It’s something he hardly notices most of the time, but he tries to commit it to memory. 

He’s not sure how long they stay like that. Tucker doesn’t seem to be in much hurry to pull away either. There’s preparations that need to be made, details that have to be finalized, but… he can put that off for just a bit longer. Just a few more minutes…

A few more minutes turns into hours when Tucker tugs at his hand and pulls him into bed. Wash half expects to find hands wandering toward the waistband of his sweats, but instead Tucker just tugs at him, positioning them both until he’s satisfied, his head on Wash’s chest, arms wrapped around him. It’s not an unfamiliar position. Most mornings he wakes up with Tucker pressed to his chest or his back. Because he insists on being the bigger spoon about half the time despite being a few inches shorter and not nearly as broad across the shoulders.

Apart from the small amount of time Wash has to spend teasing him about it, he… sort of likes being the little spoon. It’s warm and safe. That’s about how he feels now with Tucker half on top of him. 

Really, it’s too early to fall asleep, but with Tucker’s hand drifting up and down his side soft and slow, it’s hard to keep his eyes open. 

“Promise you’ll come back,” Tucker says suddenly, jerking Wash out of the sleepy haze he’s drifting into. 

He blinks at Tucker for a second before he grabs at his hand and gives a firm squeeze. There’s a slight roughness under his fingers of old scars and burns that he’s almost got memorized by now. “I promise. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.”

Tucker props himself up and stares at him for a second, brow furrowed with intense concentration. Wash isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but after a moment he nods and leans in, pressing a firm kiss to Wash’s lips before he drops his head back onto his chest. His hand goes back to dragging up and down Wash’s side and sleep slowly comes to him. Probably a good thing that it does, there’s going to be a lot of rough nights ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slightly slow chapter, but finally got around to Grey and Wash having a chat that's a looooong time coming. I'm so excited to be getting to this part of the story, this is something that I've had planned for ages, so I can't wait for you guys to see the next few chapters! Thank you so much to everyone for the kudos and the comments! We'll be getting into the thick of it soon and I just want to say I appreciate everyone who's stuck around for the slower parts, I hope you'll like what I've got coming!


	28. Nothing Safe is Worth the Drive

The armor feels strangely heavy. Wash has spent far too much time out of it lately. But somehow, this feels different than his recent trip to Praxis. Then it was like slipping back into his second skin. Now it feels weighty, almost stifling, the air filtered and unnatural. 

“You ready for this, Wash?”

He glances over at Carolina where she leans against the opposite side of the pelican. The honest answer is no. It doesn’t matter how much planning has gone into it, into his stupid plan, there’s still so many moving pieces. God, why the hell did he think this was a good plan? He can’t stop thinking about Tucker’s face when he left, looking back and seeing those big brown eyes so sad and lost. Seeing Caboose behind him, smiling and waving and promising sleepovers when Wash gets back. 

This has to work. He has to make it back to them. It’ll be alright. He just has to breathe. He can do this.

“As ready as I’m ever going to be.”

He gets a nod in return as the pelican sets them down. They land outside of Typhe, the last city Wash had thought the pirates might be occupying. There’s been a few flyovers before, with minimal activity detected, but still, that’s more than the nothing they’ve been seeing everywhere else. And there’s not much good in just wandering around empty cities hoping to come across a pirate. 

Following after Carolina, they approach in near silence, sticking to the shadows of the trees that surround three sides of the city. The northern border is rather strange, where the city meets a strangely shaped lake. Apparently, it was once a crater, a massive alien temple right in the center before the rainy seasons did their best to drown the place. Though if the pirates were there, the temple probably still has some kind of life left in it. 

At least they don’t have to worry about that part. Wash isn’t in a huge hurry to deal with the alien temples, regular old space pirates are more than enough for him to worry about at the moment. 

Typhe is eerily quiet. Unlike many other cities, almost none of the buildings are destroyed. Somehow, that makes it even stranger. Wash has read the reports. Apparently the place was one of the first to simply be abandoned. There just weren’t enough people left to keep it going, so it was just left behind. 

Carolina gives the command to stop before they reach the edge of the city and Wash ducks behind a tree for cover. “What do you see?”

“I’ve got heat signatures. It looks like there’s a few on patrol. Not enough for this to be a settlement, but there’s definitely plenty of pirates inside. I’m picking up a few large vehicles too, just like Praxis.”

It’s the perfect place. They aren’t going to get another chance like this. Wash’s heart is suddenly hammering in his ears and he wills his team’s faces out of his head. He takes a breath and flexes his fingers. Alright, no more waiting. “Lets go.”

“Hold on a second.”

Wash frowns, glancing toward the spec of aqua behind a tree several feet away. He shifts a little, trying to make out more of Carolina. She has her head ducked slightly, hand pressed to the side of her helmet like she’s talking to someone on the radio, but there’s no way she’s talking to anyone on long range.

“What’s wrong?”

“Epsilon wants to talk to you.”

Epsilon. Of course. Wash fights down a sigh. Of course he would pick now to pipe in with something. Whatever it is, this isn’t the time. Why did Carolina even bring him along? For the last few weeks, Wash hasn’t even seen a flicker of him. In all the meetings and talks about the plan, he hadn’t said a word. But now he wants to get chatty?

“Carolina, we need to move--”

“He says it’ll only take a second.”

Wash blows out a breath. Well… he did say goodbye to the rest of the team, just in case. It’s probably not fair to leave Epsilon without one. Though it’s not as if anything for them has ever been ‘fair’. “Fine, but we move in two minutes. Keep an eye on the sentries.”

“Understood.” And it’s still so strange to hear Carolina listening when he gives an order. Not a good strange. It almost makes him feel a bit off balance. After this, Wash is going to take a break from calling the shots on missions. It never feels right. 

There’s a crackle of another radio channel opening. He waits for a moment listening to the static. “Epsilon? Are you there?”

“Yeah, of course I’m here, numbnuts. Where else would I be?”

At least he isn’t suddenly all soft words and sad goodbyes. Honestly, Wash wouldn’t know what the hell to do with that. He rolls his eyes. “Right. Did you want something?”

“Uh… yeah.” And the voice suddenly sounds stilted and awkward. It’s strange talking to Epsilon without seeing him… without feeling him. But it’s better this way. No projection to get them spotted in the darkness of the trees. No dense weight at the back of his skull sending flickers along his nerves. 

“Well?” he asks after a few more moments of quiet. “Epsilon, we don’t have a lot of time here.”

“I know, I know! It’s just--look, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Really? You’re picking now to complain?”

“Who’s complaining? I’m just… asking. I ran the numbers and you would not believe the amount of ways this could get fucked up.”

“You might be surprised.” Because Wash has thought about it. A lot. Nearly constantly since the idea first started drifting around his head. He could get executed immediately, or Carolina could lose his signal. Locus could hand him over to Price immediately or Felix. They could try to ransom him back to the people of Chorus or just torture him until they get bored. 

Plenty of fun options that have kept him tossing and turning for days. He doesn’t need Epsilon hammering them in any harder. 

He takes a breath and leans back against the tree, gloves scraping lightly over the bark. “We need to do something, Epsilon. This might be the only chance we have. Besides… you and Carolina will have my back the whole time, right?”

“Well yeah, obviously.” It’s… strangely reassuring how quickly Epsilon says it. “The second this shit goes south--and it’s so going south--we’re pulling you out.”

“You designed the tracker yourself, didn’t you? You’ll have eyes on me the entire time assuming it works.”

Epsilon scoffs. “Assuming? Fuck you, dude, that’s some of my best work. You think making that kind of tracker is easy? Do you know how much time I put into that fucking thing?”

“Probably about half the time you spent complaining about having to make it in the first place.” And Wash almost freezes there, his tone light and teasing and so strange to his own ears. He… can’t remember the last time he talked to Epsilon like that. 

He must hear it too, because there’s a strange, stilted pause, then an almost awkward laugh. Wash tries to ignore the strange pang in his chest. This is not the time. He’s pretty sure there’s never going to be a time for… whatever this is. But if Epsilon wants to have it out with him, there will be better chances once this is over. 

“Yeah, alright smartass. Let’s see you make a tracker that wires itself into someone on contact in a week.” Epsilon sounds rather proud of himself. 

And Wash has to give it to him. This plan wouldn’t be worth anything without that tracker. He just wishes they had been able to run a few more tests with it first. There had been three successes and one failure, and Epsilon had sworn that one had been a fluke. Something about that one not being programmed right to begin with. 

It’s odd now, thinking about it. This entire scheme falls on Epsilon and Locus. Something turns in Wash’s stomach and there’s a sudden urge to call the whole thing off. No. This is the only way. 

“Exactly, so I should be fine, right?”

Epsilon makes a vauge, irritated noise, apparently not thrilled with the corner he’s talked himself into. Although Wash led him there, and he knows it isn’t quite fair. And it doesn’t work for them to leave things that way. If… if it does go wrong, he doesn’t want to end with everything still as tense and awkward and uncomfortable as ever. 

“I know you and Carolina have my back here. You won’t let anything happen to me.”

And there’s a faint static sound, almost like a gasp. Because he’s sure they both hear the faint, unspoken ‘this time’. Wash doesn’t mean for it to be there, but there’s no pretending it isn’t handing in the air between them. “Uh, yeah. I mean, we’d be pretty shit backup if we did.”

“And you’ll get me out the second it looks like things might be going wrong.”

“Yeah, yeah, no shit we will,” Epsilon says, sounding a bit more confident this time, like he actually believes it. Or he’s starting to anyway. That’s probably the most they’ll ever be able to get here. 

There’s still that massive gap between them. Epsilon in his ear, not his head, never his head, it’s impossible not to feel the distance. He’s so used to it by now, having his head to himself, even if there’s plenty floating around in there that isn’t his. But there’s still a little place that almost feels like a hole. A dark, empty bit that doesn’t have to be. 

Wash cuts himself off before he starts wondering if Epsilon would even still fit into it. Because he still doesn’t want him there. Probably never will. This is enough for now. 

“Good. Now we need to move. Unless there was something else you wanted to say?” he asks, hoping there isn’t. They need to get going. The longer they take to actually put his stupid plan into action the more and more he rethinks it himself. 

“It’s… Wash, I just--fuck it. I’m good. You’re good. It’s fine, who gives a shit.” And then the channel clicks off and Epsilon is gone before Wash can get another word in. 

Great, because he needs that wonderful conversation drifting around his head on top of everything else. Just perfect. But when Carolina looks his way, head cocked like she wants to ask a question, he faintly shakes his head. They need to go before they all lose their nerve. 

So with a silent signal, they move. 

* * *

Getting past the outer walls of Typhe is easy enough. Doyle had briefed him on the city before they left, giving a detailed map of the layout. Apparently the place had been one of the first to be fueled almost entirely by one of the alien temples. The people of Chorus had found, after some trial and error, that they could use the strange energy keeping the temples going as a nearly unlimited power supply. 

The fact that… no one actually seems to know how the temples work or what the power is or where it came from in the first place has apparently been mostly ignored or just written off as ‘one of those weird alien things’. Wash has encountered a few aliens before and done his share of research here and there, but most of what he knows is about how to handle an alien when up against one in battle. The finer points of how their architecture works wasn’t exactly required reading. 

So the fact that the mercenaries have been at not one, but both of the sites near alien temples is honestly a little troubling. Because it sure as hell seems like they know a bit more about how they work, which can’t mean anything good. 

As soon as they get into the city, he splits off from Carolina, sticking to the streets while she finds a good vantage point on one of the rooftops. From the second they stepped inside the walls, radios have been off. Aqua armor disappears from his field of vision and Wash is completely alone. 

He takes a long, deep breath and starts moving. 

It’s a bit like Praxis, the more he looks at it. If a few buildings had toppled over or been blown to bits here and there, he might think he was in the same damn city. Apparently the people on Chorus that built these places weren’t particularly original. But that’s not the weirdest part. 

The city is quiet and abandoned, but it’s not dead. 

As he moves from the shadow of one building to the next, Wash sees flickers of life here and there. Street signs still glow and change, heralding ghost traffic and faint musical hums drift from speakers scattered around large buildings, providing the strangest sense of ambiance. It’s like no one told the city to stop running. 

Somehow that’s even more eerie than the dead quiet of Praxis. But it makes him wonder. Why is Typhe still humming along? 

Until it stops. 

Wash is working his way toward the north side of the city, knowing that time is limited before the pelican that dropped him and Carolina off comes back to drop a few surprises over the south side. They don’t need all of the pirates hanging around when they put his brilliant plan into action. He’s nearly halfway there when the lights in the buildings next to him flicker and die. 

It’s like a power surge, spreading through the entire city. Alright, that’s nice and ominous, and Wash is suddenly sure that he’s heading right toward the source of it. Because as the strange ambient sound fades, it’s replaced with something else. It sounds like… drilling? Heavy machines moving about in the distance. There had been construction equipment at Praxis too…

He picks up the pace, moving more quickly now as he darts between the buildings, looking for a good spot. There’s more pirates here, but they’re still few and far between. Most of them are probably near the heavy machinery, but wandering right into the middle of that is a death trap. Which is a little more than the kind of trap he’s hoping he can walk into. 

There’s a decent spot not far from the construction spot that he ducks into, an old shop that looks like it hasn’t been touched in ages. Wash can see several space pirates milling about what looks like a massive drill not too far away. 

It seems like it’s one of many. From his spot, Wash can make out at least half a dozen along the northern wall. The wall isn’t like the ones that border Armonia, for one thing, it’s certainly not meant to keep people out. Well, not unless those people are much more traditional pirates trying to sail into the city.

The wall curves in toward the city around the edge of the lake, going down into the ground rather than up for the most part, making up at least a third of the crater. Despite all the noise and the slight breeze Wash’s helmet indicates is ruffling the city, the lake is almost impossibly still. And he’s never seen water so bright blue. It almost doesn't’ look real, like it’s lit up from underneath. If it was darker out, the surface would probably glow. 

Even from here, he can see the tip of the temple poking out of the water way out in the middle of the lake, glowing even brighter than the water around it. Well, he can certainly see why the people of Chorus would be interested in trying to harness its power. This far away, he can almost feel the pull of it, a strange electricity in the air that would probably have the air at the back of his neck rising if he was out of armor. 

No wonder the pirates want it. Though… how they’re getting the power with those drills, he can’t even begin to guess. They certainly seem to have managed to shut it off for the rest of the city, but if there’s a way to get it out, Wash doesn’t even want to know what they plan to do with it. Well, he probably should. It can’t be anything good if they need enough power to run two cities… assuming that’s even what they’re after. 

Fuck. Fuck, there’s too many unknowns. This is why they have to do this. Alright, alright, he just needs to breathe and stay focused. Wait for the bombing run. This bit they have planned down to the second. Assuming Carolina’s in position and there’s no surprises, it should work. Hell, with those machines there, he’s got an idea that could make things work even better. 

After all, he needs an excuse to be running around in a city full of pirates that doesn’t seem completely faked. Otherwise, he might seem too suspicious to take prisoner and get executed before they take him back to wherever their base is. Because again, it’s clearly not here. 

At least there’s no sign of Locus or Felix this time around, which… he’s hoping is a good thing. 

He waits, doing his best not to accidentally hold his breath until the bombs start dropping. The clock in his helmet ticks down. On cue, there’s an explosion somewhere far away, at least half a city away, the sound of a pelican somewhere overhead. 

Wash counts in his head, watching as the pirates start yelling to each other, most of them heading into the city, probably for cover, or to see if they’ve been infiltrated. There’s just a few left, busy securing drills a few dozen yards away. That’s as good an opening as he’s going to get. 

So he moves. Rushing forward without thought, he makes for the closest drill. There’s a shout somewhere behind him as he climbs into the control box and stares at an intensely complicated set of controls. The shout gets closer and there’s the sound of boots against metal, one of the pirates climbing up after him. 

Fuck it. He hits a few buttons at random and then drops a grenade and kicks it under the control panel before diving out. Wash hits pavement hard and rolls to his feet, sprinting to the next drill as the one behind him blows. There’s shouts and screams behind him and he’s almost to the next drill when a bullet lodges itself in his shoulder.

The pain is sharp and almost blinding and sends him tumbling to the ground. He tries to scramble up again, ignoring the splatter of his own blood on the ground. Wash is moving before he’s all the way up. Turning away from the drills, he makes for cover. 

But he barely gets ten feet before another bullet goes right through his leg and sends him toppling to the ground again, cursing under his breath. The shouting gets closer and he stays down. 

He’s still on his knees and looks up when a pirate fills his vision. The butt of a rifle cracks into the side of his helmet and he sees stars as he drops heavily onto his side. It feels like the world is lurching underneath him, spinning so he can’t possibly get up. There’s blood on the ground, but not as much as there could be. 

Carolina’s always been a good shot. 

The pain is strangely dull and distant, but he knows if just about anyone else had been behind the trigger, it would be so much more. With Carolina’s aim, and Epsilon giving a boost to targeting, they had been able to plan down to the square centimeter where she would hit. There’s a very strange sensation under the pain in his shoulder, the tracker hooking into him and hiding itself. At least he sure hopes that’s what the strange electric tingle is. 

Voice above him seem to identify who he is and the last thing he sees is a boot coming toward his head and then darkness takes him. So far so good.

* * *

The bed smells wrong. It’s the first thing Wash notices as he slowly blinks the world into focus. There’s none of that sweet smell of Tucker’s shampoo clinging to the pillow. 

The room is wrong, he notices blearily, a throbbing in his head making it hard to sort through his thoughts. Asshole must have kicked him harder than he thought. Trying to give himself a little shake just makes the pain worse. 

One hand pressed to his temple, he slowly sits up and blinks at his surroundings. He’s not in a cell, which, as recent memories trickle back into his brain, seems kind of strange. The room doesn’t look quite like the ones back in Armonia, but… it isn’t far off. There’s no bars on the window and the door looks like normal, solid wood. 

Maybe it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. Building prisons probably wasn’t Chorus’ top priority, and as fitting as it would be, the mercs probably wouldn’t go out of their way to pick one as their home base. Well, Felix might. The guy seems like he would be willing to go pretty far to stick with his aesthetic. 

The walls are beige and blank. It almost looks like a college dorm room. He’s not tied to anything, which is doubly surprising, but honestly a welcome relief. A slight ache to his leg stops him from getting up. His armor is long gone, but that’s not really surprising. Looking down at himself his brow furrows. He’s in loose sweats instead of his undersuit. Someone had to change his clothes and that makes something turn in his gut, but he tries to push it down. 

He had known that could happen. Of course they wouldn’t let him keep his undersuit, especially if they wanted to get at the bullet wounds… which it seems like they did. Bandages wrap around his shoulder under the thin shirt and he suspects the same is true of his leg. A sick feeling creeps over him that he forces down. He doesn’t want to know who patched him up. He doesn’t want to think about foreign hands touching him. 

Wash takes a breath and leans back against the wall. The bed is tucked into the corner of the room, the blankets neatly made under him. Whoever put him in here didn’t want him to be uncomfortable. Good. That’s a good sign. Much better than he’d hoped for actually. 

Still, he can’t look like he actually wants to be there. 

Ignoring the throbbing protests from his leg, Wash pushes himself up to his feet and tries the door. His fingers barely brush the doorknob before a sharp, painful electric jolt goes up his arm and makes him stagger back. Shaking out his hand he glares at the knob. Not like he had expected to get out that way, but that seems a little much. Alright, maybe he should rethink how good of a spot he’s in here. 

He inspects the room closely. It’s been pretty cleaned out apart from the bed. There’s a barren closet and a place where a desk probably was until recently judging by the indentations in the carpet. The lights overhead are on. Wash is a little more careful as he tries the light switch. It doesn’t shock him and works, letting him dim the room if he wants. The window seems to be there for aesthetic reasons only for the amount of light it lets in, so he leaves the light on. 

Trying the window doesn’t work either, though that’s less because of anything done by his captors probably, and more likely because some of the architects on Chorus thought rooms should have windows even if they press right up against another building and all that’s out there is wall. It doesn’t look like it was ever meant to open. He could probably break the glass, maybe make it into some kind of weapon in a pinch, but he’s not getting out that way. 

The ceiling is high and smooth apart from a small black device in one corner. They’re not even trying to hide the fact that they’re watching him. Wash levels it with a glare, fighting down the temptation to wave. Let them think he’s mad, that he hates this, that he’s not exactly where he wants to be. 

His leg and shoulder ache, but he keeps moving, running his hands over every inch of the room, searching for anything he might be able to use to get out. Maybe if they think he’s desperate, they’ll send Locus along to taunt him. Or Felix. The two of them he could handle at least. As long as they don’t send Price, he can handle it. 

Wash’s eyes flick to the camera again and he fights down a curse. Price is probably watching all of this. Damn it. He’s going to have to put on one hell of a show to keep him convinced. Yeah, alright, this probably wasn’t the best plan. But he’s here now. Gotta stick it out. His hand drifts to his shoulder and he fakes a wince as he presses at it. 

The tracker has to be there. They couldn’t have gotten it out. He’s alright. He can do this. Carolina’s going to be monitoring his vitals the whole time. The second things look like they’re going too wrong, she’ll get him out. 

Taking a few deep breaths, he glances around the room again. He moves to press his back to one of the walls, slowly sinking down onto the floor, ignoring the bed as he draws his knees in close and glares at the door. It’s too early to pretend to be broken, to pretend to give in. Hopefully, it won’t come to the point where he has to. 

Wash tries to keep track of the time, but it’s hard without any natural light coming in the window. It could be hours--it probably is judging by the gnawing feeling that starts to grow in his stomach--before the door opens. A pirate in full armor opens the door, gun aimed at Wash as a ration bar is tossed his way. The door slams shuts as quickly as it opened, and he’s alone again. 

Interesting. For some reason he had thought one of the mercs would come to see him first. Damn it. 

He eyes the ration bar dubiously. If they’ve kept him alive up to this point, they’re probably not poisoning him now, but it could be laced with something, so he leaves it be. Wash is no stranger to going hungry. So he kicks the ration bar away and settles into the corner of his room. Can’t let himself get comfortable. 

If Locus sees him on that camera, Wash wants to paint a very particular picture. And… honestly, there’s no way Locus isn’t sneaking a look at him. Wash might not know everything about the man, but he knows that much with some certainty. Locus likes to watch. 

Might as well give him something to look at. And the very Tucker-sounding thought that comes into his head after that makes Wash duck his head so the camera doesn't catch the way his face flushes. Damn it. 

There’s an ache in his chest. Because he can’t just go down the hall to Tucker’s room to tell him the terrible joke that popped into his head. He can’t just wander across the hall or down to the infirmary to check on Caboose or chat with Grif and Simmons. He can’t go downstairs for wine and cheese hour with Donut and he can’t just head over to the gym to spar with Carolina. 

And he put himself here. God fucking damn it. His stupid plan better work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Finally getting into another part that I've been planning since the beginning, I've been looking forward to this for ages. Thank you so much to everyone for the kudos and comments and sticking around so long! I'm going to warn now that next chapter is going to be a little rough. I'll put the appropriate warnings at the beginning, but just know that this wouldn't be a 'Wash gets captured' fic without a little of the ol' ultraviolence. Also I made a post over on tumblr giving more details about Wash's soulmarks that have currently been revealed if anyone wants to check that out!


	29. With Your Words Like Knives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood, assault, mentions of torture

Wash isn't sure how long it is before he gets a visitor who actually wants to talk to him. 

Guards come every now and then to leave bottles of water or toss him more ration bars. Wash drinks the water, only because the bottles are sealed and he wants to still be somewhat coherent when Locus or Felix or… or Price finally show up. The ration bars, he ignores, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach slowly fading, though he knows that’s coming back to bite him eventually. At his best guess, he’s gone a month without food before, he can handle a few days without a problem. Grey probably won’t be pleased, but he can deal with that when the time comes. 

It’s probably at least been a day or two and he’s almost drifting off, head resting against the wall when the door opens. Wash shifts, instantly alert, though he does his best not to look at it, eyes half lidded as he glances over toward the armored figure kicking the door shut behind him. 

“Well hey there, Wash. Did I wake you? My bad.” Damn it. Of course it’s Felix. Because he’s never going to catch a break here. 

He fixes Felix with a glare, not moving from his spot in the corner, trying to ignore the sudden thrum of nerves. His back is to the wall. It’s alright. This is right where he wants to be. He just has to make sure Felix doesn’t know that. 

“What do you want, Felix?” he asks, voice even and irritated.

Felix shrugs, leaning back against the door. He’s got a knife in his hands, one gauntlet tucked under his arm so he can use the blade to clean his nails. It’s like he watches Bond movies and takes his cues from the villains. “Can’t a guy just come by to shoot the shit with his prisoner?”

Wash just cocks an eyebrow at him. Yeah, there’s no way in hell he’s buying that. Felix isn’t in full armor, most of the pieces that should be covering his arms left behind, probably making it easier to move. He’s clearly not expecting much of a fight, though the knife is a clear sign just what Wash has to look forward to if he tries to start one. 

“Not feeling chatty? Come on, Wash, where’s your biting comebacks? Already giving up? That’s so not like you,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Who says I’m giving up? Unlike some people, I just know what fights to pick. And this one isn’t worth it.”

“Ouch, now that hurts, Wash. I come here as a friend to check on you and see how you’re doing and you throw that kinda shit at me? That’s just bad manners.” Felix pushes himself off the door and Wash tenses. But Felix just settles on the bed, the mattress springs creaking under the weight of his armor. “Dunno why you’re not using this bed. Not like we boobytrapped it or anything. It’s actually pretty nice. Only the best for Locus’ favorite.”

There’s a strange hint of disdain in Felix’s voice that Wash has never heard there before, one that sounds… weirdly genuine. Huh. Now that’s  _ interesting _ . 

The mattress creaks as Felix shifts on top of it, sitting up and tugging off his helmet. Wash has never really thought about what Felix might look under his helmet. But somehow he’s exactly what he would have expected, narrow, pointy features, and small, dark, discerning eyes. He moves to lay on his stomach, propping his head up on his arms as he settles into place, watching Wash closely. 

“So, Wash, what I’m wondering here is if you’re going to be difficult. Cause, y’know, I like you. Well, maybe ‘like’ isn’t the right word. Respect, yeah, yeah that’s it. I respect you and your intense, cryptic ‘I’m a brooding loner who can’t actually get for seconds alone’ thing. I could be into that,” Felix says, casually, like they’re talking about the weather. 

At least that makes it that much easier to ignore. 

Wash blows a breath out his nose. “If you’d like to get to the point any time soon, can you let me know?”

Felix clicks his tongue and points his knife Wash’s way, but it doesn’t feel like a threat. Not yet. “You’re not really in a position to be giving me attitude here, Wash. If I were you, I’d talk to your host a little more politely.”

“Are you my host now?”

“For the time being, apparently.” Felix blows a breath out his nose and shakes his head, irritation flitting across his face that sure looks real. “See, if it were up to me, we’d already have you gutted like a fish and sent back to Armonia in little pieces. Or better yet, we’d film the part where I cut you up and let all your little friends watch.”

Wash ignores the chill that puts in his veins. He knew this. He knew going in Felix would want to make it bloody, make him hurt. 

“So… who is it up to? Locus?”

Scoffing, Felix rolls his eyes. “You wish. Like Locus would ever actually step up and take charge of any of this shit. You know how he is with orders. We’re both in the backseat on this, just riding it out till the end.”

“So you’re not in charge anymore?”

There’s another eye roll, this one slightly more exaggerated. “Don’t play dumb, Wash, you’re terrible at it.”

Felix pushes himself up and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s only a foot away now, still gesturing with the knife in his hand. “You know Locus and I’ve always been the muscle, come on. I mean, I like this gig, don’t get me wrong, there’s good money in genocide, but I’ve always just been along for the ride, y’know? Getting paid and moving on, that’s the whole idea here. But then you and those idiots had to come along and just ruin a perfectly good paycheck. You owe me a lot of money, Wash, and I don’t like people who owe me money.”

“And here I thought we were getting along so well.” Wash lets his head drop to the side against the wall, watching Felix from the corner of his eye. The knife doesn’t stop moving, but it’s staying in Felix’s hands, which aren’t even making a twitch toward him. 

“Funny. Would’ve figured Freelancer surgically removed your sense of humor.” Felix leans back, supporting himself on one arm, tossing the knife up and down in his other hand, watching the blade almost idly. “But enough about me, let’s talk about you and what you’re doing here.”

Wash manages not to react beyond one eyebrow creeping up toward his hairline. “I’m a prisoner. I’m doing whatever won’t get me killed, while still being as passive aggressive as possible.”

“And I can respect that,” Felix says, with a little bob of his head. “What I want to know is what you were doing out in Typhe. How did you know about our operation there?”

Now that is quite the question. And one that Wash can’t even begin to think of a good answer for, so he keeps his face impassive as a swirl of his own questions go around and around in his head. 

Operation? What were they doing there? He had only guessed it might be a good spot to find them because the temple could power a base. But they had been doing something else, something with the power. There hadn’t been time to really look, to find anything out. 

But… this is Felix he’s talking to, and if there’s one thing Felix loves to do, it’s talk. So Wash just shrugs. It’s been awhile since he’s had to think on his feet like this, not since he was working to take down Freelancer. The skills are rusty, but they’re still there. 

“After what we saw in Praxis, I figured you had to be hitting other temples. Typhe only made sense.” If he leaves enough blanks in the right places, Felix might just have to fill them in himself. 

There’s a furrow to Felix’s brow as he catches the knife again and leans forward, arms resting on his knees. “And what? You thought you could disable all the drills by yourself? Seems like a pretty big long shot, even for you, Wash.”

“The bombing run wasn’t as distracting as I hoped it would be,” he says, tone purposefully terse. “I made a mistake. It happens.”

“Right…” Felix is still frowning for a moment. But then he cocks his head to one side, little smirk curling onto his face. “You really can’t spare the resources to send a whole team out here, huh? I guess things are as bad as Sinclair’s been saying. I really gotta learn to start listening to her more.”

Wash’s jaw clenches. Damn it. Well that explains why the pirates have been focusing on cutting their supply lines. They don’t want them getting any ideas about stopping… whatever the hell it is they’re doing. 

Why didn’t he learn more about the aliens when he had the chance? If they’re taking power… maybe they’re making some kind of weapon? That sort of makes sense when he runs it around his head a few times, but he’s keeping his guesses to himself. The second Felix figures out he’s just there to gather intel, he’s screwed. 

“So she really has told you everything,” Wash says, doing his best to sound pained and sullen, which… alright, he doesn’t have to put on too much of an act for that. Because it feels like Felix is just twisting that knife Sinclair already sunk into his back. 

Which is probably exactly what he’s doing 

Felix barks out a laugh, tossing his head back, a smug grin on his face when he looks back at Wash. “Oh, you have no idea. God, I don’t know why the hell you let her leave. She’s been with the Feds for years, and the New Republic was way too happy to let her start poking through their info too. We know every last one of your supply routes and battle plans. Which, I mean, wouldn’t have been too hard for us to figure out ourselves. There’s really not a whole lot of creativity, I gotta say. Someone really needs to step up there.”

Wash just stares at him flatly, waiting for him to finish. God, he loves the sound of his own voice. Tucker had mentioned that, a few times. He’d sat Wash down before and given him a fairly detailed list of Felix’s ticks and traits. Not a comprehensive one by any means, which Tucker had said a few dozen times. Over and over, he had drummed it in that the Felix he’d known could have all been a complete act. 

But watching him now… noting the quirk of his lips when he’s feeling like he’s winning, and the way he gestures with the blade when really trying to drive a point home, it seems like Tucker might have seen more of the truth than he thought. Which is… kind of strange. 

Well, at least Wash can work with that far more easily than trying to parse through every inch of him to find the lies. If he gets Felix talking, he might not even need Locus. 

“With all that information, you’d think you would’ve tried to wipe us out by now. Too busy with your little project to finish us off?” He bites out the question, glaring Felix’s way without having to act much. The malice here is pretty genuine. It makes things easier. 

Something about Felix’s grin turns wicked and there’s a glint in his narrowed, beady eyes that makes the hair on Wash’s arms stand up. “Oh, don’t you worry Wash, we’ve got other plans for you and your little friends. Well, mostly them. Now that we’ve got you here, the big guy’s probably not letting you go any time soon, so I’d get comfy if I were you. You would not believe how happy the big guy was when they brought you in. He’ll probably stop by later… y’know, once he talks them into shutting the cameras off for a while.” 

Oh. Oh good. Just what he needs. Wash had sort of expected that might be an issue, but… well, maybe it’s not as bad as Felix is making it out to be. His eyes flick to the camera before he can stop them. 

He tries to will away the thoughts that creep into his head. Of Locus’ hands, too big, too rough, holding him in place, forcing him into the corner. There’s a sick feeling that twists his gut and he gives himself a little shake and shoots a glare at Felix.

“Why the warning? Are you trying to play good cop here? That doesn’t seem like you.”

Felix snickers and then shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “Believe me, Wash, if I had it my way, I’d be playing the shit out of bad cop right now. But as it is, well…”

He moves almost too fast for Wash to see and the next thing he knows, the knife is embedded in the wall, less than an inch from Wash’s head, the blade still twanging with the impact. Wash doesn’t flinch, face carefully blank even as Felix gets up and leans over him. One hand moves to the handle of the knife, the other presses flat to the wall just above Wash’s head. 

“If I had my way, I wouldn’t have missed. So count yourself lucky, Washington.” He leans in closer, bringing them almost nose to nose. Wash meets his eyes without blinking. 

Don’t flinch, don’t blink, breathe even. 

Felix stares for a long moment, mouth slowly curling into a snarl as he jerks the knife out of the wall and presses the tip just under Wash’s chin. The metal is colder than he expects, but he doesn’t jerk away. 

“Because, trust me, the second Locus gets tired of chasing after you, there’s not gonna be anymore nice cop. Price might have his fucking plans, but I don’t really listen to him most of the time, so as soon as they forget about you for a minute, you and me… we’re gonna have some fun.”

The knife moves in a flash, dragging a line across Wash’s cheek. He feels drops of blood roll down his face before the stinging pain sets in. 

Watching Felix as he draws back, Wash blinks slowly and tips his head slightly to one side. “Wow.”

Felix arches an eyebrow at him in a silent question.

“They really have you on a tight leash, don’t they? That must be so frustrating.”

Wash expects fireworks, the knife back in the wall or worse, but Felix just stares at him for a second before he slowly shakes his head. “You have no fucking idea. At least I’ve got someone fun to take all that out on.”

What in the hell does that mean? Some of the confusion must show on Wash’s face, because Felix’s expression changes, a smile spreading that looks like something out of a nightmare. There’s too many teeth in it and it’s all too easy to picture them dripping in blood, ripping out a throat. 

“Right, you still don’t know that part. You really need to look out for your friends better, Wash. Such a shame,” he says, shaking his head as he moves toward the door. 

“What does that mean? Who do you have? Felix, wait--” But the only answer he gets is a loud, echoing laugh as the door slams shut and he’s alone again. 

Bile rises in his throat and it takes all his willpower to keep it down. Who do they have? Did they get Carolina too? No. There’s no way they could’ve caught her. They didn’t even know she was there. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

He smacks his hands back against the wall, pain jolting up his arms, giving him something else to feel besides the gut twisting panic and guilt. Felix could be lying. Making up some shitty story to mess with him. 

But that gnawing worry doesn’t want to leave. 

Tucker’s face runs through his head, then Caboose’s and Donut’s. All the Reds and Blues. And then the others, the kids he’s been training, the officers doing their best to keep everyone in line. Damn it. 

He’s learned to care too much, stretched himself too far. This is why he can’t have people. Damn it damn it damn it. How could he forget? Caring is a weakness, but it’s one that’s carved into his bones now. 

* * *

Wash doesn’t sleep that night. Or whatever feels like night. It’s so hard to keep track of the time. He stays in the corner until his legs itch to move and force him to get up and pace. 

Again, he goes over every inch of the room, looking for anything he could possibly use to escape, the attempts far more genuine now. But again, he finds nothing. He sort of figured as much. Not like anything’s actually changed in the room. Felix wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave anything behind. 

He tries the window to no avail. It looks like it was never meant to open, and punching the glass just ends with bruised, aching knuckles. 

The door still shocks him when he tries it again. Which… he had expected. When he gets close and listens very, very carefully, he can hear the faint, electrical hum of whatever’s keeping it hot.

Wash walks back, only stopping when the edge of the bed bumps against the backs of his legs. He sinks down onto it heavily, staring down the door. It has to be locked. There’s no way they would’ve just left it unlocked with the current running through it. But… if they did…

He tugs off his shirt. The material is thin, but if he bunches it up over his hand, maybe that’ll be enough. 

With his impromptu glove in place. He tries again, touching the knob gingerly, wincing when he hears that electrical hum. It’s dulled, but he can still feel the unpleasant tingles creeping up his arm as he turns the knob. 

Locked. Of course it is. 

The shirt drops from his hand as he steps back and sinks down onto the floor again. Wash drags a hand through his hair, gritting his teeth. This was all a mistake. He has to get out, get a message to Carolina, tell her to forget him, forget the mission, go back and make sure everyone’s alright. 

Wash shakes himself a little and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and forces down a few deep breaths. He can’t abandon this now. But… maybe he can save whoever it is when he makes his escape. Yeah, yeah that’ll work. Hopefully. He just has to ignore that little nagging voice in his head telling him it’s already too late. 

* * *

Reluctantly, he starts eating. Just a few bites of a ration bar now and then. They don’t seem to be drugged after the first test, so he decides they’re mostly safe, but he’s not trusting anything more than that. 

Wash starts trying to get some kind of a routine going. Sleep still doesn’t want to come for more than a few minutes at a time, so he passes the hours pacing the room, pounding on the window and door and, once he’s tired of beating his knuckles bloody, he exercises. Can’t let his muscles fade away while he’s trapped in this fucking box. 

Felix comes back when he’s halfway through a set. This time, Wash doesn’t even bother looking at him, letting the taunts and jabs rush over him like water. If he asks too many questions, Felix might stop talking. Not that he really needs to anyway. He gives away plenty when Wash doesn’t say a thing. 

“So I was telling Price it would be so much easier to just crush everyone in the capital. I mean, honestly, it’s like you people aren’t even trying anymore,” Felix says. He’s lying on the bed, throwing his knife in the air and catching it again and again. “It would be so easy to just take you all out in one go, but noooo. Gotta stick to the grand plan.”

Once it’s clear Wash isn’t biting, he leaves, with a few more scathing remarks, and a nice comment about how much their other prisoner, whoever it is, has to be looking forward to seeing him again. Wash bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, but doesn’t speak. It’s not until Felix leaves again that he gets up and drives his fist into the wall. 

Felix comes back the next day. Or maybe just hours later. It’s hard to tell. He has to be coming by at least once every day now. It’s the same every time, sitting on the bed, tossing the knife, or walking in circles around Wash, poised to strike. But he never does.

Bits of information get dropped here and there, because with no one interrupting or cutting him off, Felix just keeps going and going. He doesn’t drop anything huge, but Wash learns that they’ve been going to temple after temple based on some plan of Price’s. What they’re looking for, Felix doesn’t say. Power maybe? Probably not given Felix’s irritated complaints about none of them being the ‘right’ one. Whatever that means. 

And apparently Felix and Locus aren’t allowed out on the missions to look for whatever the ‘right one’ would be.

“I don’t get what his problem with us is. Locus’ll follow his orders down the letter and I hate the guy, but if I’m getting paid, I’ll get the job done,” he says, in between driving the knife into the wall again and again. “He says we’re ‘too valuable’. Gimme a fucking break.”

Felix huffs and pushes himself up, pacing the room for several minutes before he leaves, the door slamming shut. He does that a lot. Leaves and comes back, leaves and comes back again and again. Once, Wash is pretty sure he only left for a few minutes before coming back with a new set of irritating points to try to drive home. 

It’s like he can’t sit still. Even though his voice is even and careless, there’s lines of tension Wash can see even out of the corner of his eye. And it clicks. That’s why Felix keeps coming back. He’s all wound up with nowhere to go. 

And apparently, already sick to death of Price. 

“Seriously, how the hell did you put up with this guy in Freelancer?” Felix is sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaning one of several knives. He’s been at it for a while, pulling out more blades than anyone should ever have on them. Which… is saying something since Wash always likes to have at least three on hand at all times.

He keeps his eyes on them, biting at the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to try to snatch one. All he needs is one. 

Leaning back against the opposite wall, he shrugs. Like usual, he tries to keep a bit of room between them at all times. Felix hasn’t tried to carve him up yet, but with the ever growing agitation radiating off him, Wash isn’t taking chances there. 

“We thought he had our best interests at heart… and he had more than enough information to sink every one of our careers,” Wash says, wishing he could muster a little more bitterness. “We didn’t have a choice. And… we trusted him.”

Felix scoffs. “Well there’s your biggest problem right there. I can’t believe all of you were dumb enough to trust that guy, no wonder it all fell apart. Should’ve seen that one coming.”

Wash blows a breath out through his nose and goes back to stretching out his legs. Don’t rise to the bait. Just ignore it.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t come up here yet for a reunion. He talks about you a lot y’know, telling us all these fun little stories about you in the Project. I never would’ve pegged you as being such a kiss ass.”

Deep breath. Don’t react. 

“You’d think after seeing all the stuff they did to your friends, you would’ve tried to do something about it. But noooo. Sweet little David just had to toe the line and play the good soldier. It didn’t matter that his friends were dying. Did you even really care about those people? Honestly, that’s pretty low, dude. I wonder if you’ll give a shit when we get the Reds and Blues. I bet I could get Tucker screaming and you wouldn’t lift a finger--”

That’s it. Something in Wash’s head snaps and he’s on his feet moving before he can think better of it. He’s fast, but he hasn’t been eating and Felix is faster. 

There’s a flash of a blade his way that he dodges and he manages a blow to Felix’s face, feeling something crack against his knuckles. But then there’s a sharp pain to his leg and the breath goes out of him as his back hits the floor as a blade presses to his throat. 

Felix hovers over him, manic grin on his face. “Fucking finally. I was starting to think you weren’t going to snap. This whole ‘I can only cut you up if you come at me first’ thing was driving me crazy.”

He shifts, sitting heavily on Wash’s stomach, forcing another breath rushing out of him. Before Wash can get his hands up to try to shove him off, Felix’s feet come down on his arms, armor plated boots far too heavy for him to force away. Damn it. 

Squirming gets him nowhere as blades flash above him, Felix’s eyes flicking over his chest, as if trying to pick the best place to start. He settles on the collar of Wash’s shirt, cutting it and then tearing it down the middle. Wash is sure Felix casts a glance toward the camera. Trying to put on a good show. 

The metal is cold against his skin, dragging here and there, the threat of pain looming, though Wash has to wonder if Felix is allowed to actually do much more than basic fear tactics. A question is halfway formed when he gets the answer as Felix drags the blade sharply across his skin, just below his clavicle and pain bursts white hot behind his eyes. 

Because he didn’t just pick any spot to draw a line through. 

“I should really just get rid of this, y’know?” Felix sounds almost bored, though when Wash forces his eyes open again, he sees that wide, deadly grin, and malice glinting in blown pupils. “It’s not like you even want this one, right? You people care so much about these stupid marks. Really, I think you should thank me for getting rid of it. It’ll save you a lotta trouble later.”

The knife goes to his chest again, tracing the edge of the large green mark and Wash shifts, trying to rock and writhe and squirm away from the point of the blade. No, no, no. He can’t take it. 

Nothing else matters but getting Felix and that goddamned knife away from him. It doesn’t matter what that mark means, or how it burns when he sees it in the mirror. None of it matters. Because it’s  _ his _ . 

He tries to kick at Felix’s head, nearly bending himself in half, but he can’t reach. He can’t breathe, can’t think. The corners of his vision start flickering as Felix tries to pin one of his shoulders. The point of the knife starts tracing fingers and Wash hears a rush of pained protests pass his lips that he barely understands. 

There’s a scoff somewhere above him, almost impossible to hear over the rush of noise in his ears. “Oh please, I know you don’t even want it. Would you calm down? It’s not like these things matter. You’ve already lost… how many now, three? What’s one more?”

Everything feels like it’s on fire, the mark threatening to burn a hole right through him. Felix is still talking, his mouth moving, but Wash can’t hear a thing over the screaming, rushing, roaring in his head. His mouth is full of blood and it’s like a pillow’s been pressed over his nose and mouth and he can only tell he’s still screaming from the way his throat aches.

And then all at once, it stops. 

Felix’s weight lifts off of him and the pain eases. The fire licking at his skin fades away as he goes limp against the floor, blinking at the room around him. Everything’s fuzzy, looking at the world through water logged eyes. There’s angry voices somewhere nearby and a strange thudding sound. 

Wash tries to look around for the source of the voices, but his eyes find the door first. The door left wide open and unguarded. He has to move. Has to get to it. This is chance. Nothing else matters. He has to get away from Felix and that knife. 

His hand finds its way to his chest, pressing to the mark. Still there. A huge breath of relief fills his lungs. The edges are rough and his hand comes away bloody, but it hasn’t been ripped away. Rolling onto his side, he heaves great breaths and spits out a mouthful of blood. 

Vision still clouded over, he tries to push himself up, only managing to get as far as holding himself up on one shaky arm before the world starts spinning around him. A large hand grips his shoulder and a low voice speaks somewhere near his ear, but he can’t make out the words. 

The arm holding him up starts to shake and gives out, sending him back to the floor as the world starts getting dimmer and dimmer around the edges. Feet step in front of his vision and the last thing he hears is the sound of more approaching as everything goes dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if the scene at the end needs anymore warnings! Thank you so much for the kudos and comments! This part has been a long time coming and I hope that it lives up to expectations!


	30. Break Me Like a Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: blood, emotional manipulation, referenced off screen torture

The door is shut. 

It’s the first thing Wash can bring into focus when his eyes open again. His limbs are heavy, curled in toward his chest on the soft surface of the bed. The fire is gone, replaced with a bone deep ache. There’s still a lingering taste of metal in his mouth and his head is filled with a heavy fog. 

Fingers move slowly through his hair, soft and gentle, almost enough to put him right back to sleep. But they aren’t familiar. They’re too hesitant to be Tucker’s, and much too large to be Donut’s. When he shifts a little, they pull away instantly. 

It takes more effort than it should to slowly push himself up. No hands move to help him sit up, which… is almost a relief. The fewer hands touching him the better even with it feeling like someone’s strapped weights to his arms and legs. Shifting, he presses himself back against the wall and rubs a hand over his face. His head is a mess, too full of screaming echoes and memories of pain. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, he looks down at himself, hands flying to his collarbone. There’s a new shirt in place, and he can feel bandages underneath it. For a second, he nearly rips both off. He has to see, has to make sure it’s still there--

“Felix didn’t remove the mark,” says a low, rumbling voice from the edge of the bed. 

Wash doesn’t have to look to know, but he does anyway. Locus is sitting on the corner of the mattress, looking as though he’s trying to perch on the very edge, most of his weight on his feet, pressed flat to the floor. He’s out of armor, kevlar undersuit doing little to hide the tension in his back and shoulders. It looks like he’s almost as uncomfortable being there as Wash is. 

But there’s… the strangest sense of relief as Wash presses his hand flat to the collar of his shirt. Still there. Why in the hell does that make him feel better? He can’t count the time he’s wanted to burn it away or rip it off his skin himself. And yet some of the heaviness leaves his arms and his shoulders almost sag as the anxiety stops churning up his stomach. 

Whatever else that mark is, whatever else it means, it’s  _ his _ . No one else gets to take it, no one else gets to touch it. His eyes flit to Locus, brow furrowing. 

“You stopped him?” Wash has to fight back a wince at the sound of his own voice. It’s rough and hoarse, still a little dazed. The world keeps trying to slip in and out of focus, and he’s glad for the wall at his back that’s steady even though everything else is trying to lurch enough to knock him off balance again. 

Locus nods, his eyes flicking down to Wash’s hand. “I… I saw what he was trying to do on the camera. He was given strict orders not to harm you unless it was in self-defense. I should have known that wouldn’t stop him from…”

Cutting himself off, Locus turns away, brow furrowed and heavy. The dark circles under his eyes have gotten worse. It’s been months since Wash has seen him, even longer since he’s seen him without a helmet. There’s a new scar high on his forehead, thinner, less pronounced than the crisscrossing lines between his eyes and there’s a deep purple bruise blossoming on his cheek that looks painfully recent. 

Wash tips his head back against the wall, hand still moving over his collarbone, feeling the edges of the bandages under his shirt, the fabric of it soft and thin. At least it feels real, slowly bringing him out of the haze in his head. Maybe they gave him some painkillers. That would explain a few things. 

Everything is sort of distant and numb… which is sort of a welcome change. Better than the too much everything, and the pain trying to eat him from the inside of out. 

“Am I supposed to thank you?” he asks, tongue strangely heavy in his mouth, the words slow and lopsided as they fall out of his mouth. 

“No. It… he shouldn’t have been left alone with you. You’re my prisoner.”

Wash scoffs, one eyebrow rising sluggishly up his forehead. “You know that doesn’t make this a whole lot better. Are you the only one that gets to torture me? Is that how this works?”

The world is getting a little easier to focus on. There’s a little pinprick of anger that he tries to focus on to pull himself up out of the haze. Anger is familiar, welcome, so much better than the strange twisting, dizzy feeling in his gut. Because he’s not about to thank Locus for saving him. Not about to let this change anything. 

But… he can use this. If he can just figure out how to get his thoughts back into a straight line. 

Frowning a little, he looks down at his other hand, flexing his fingers, trying to get them to feel like his. “Did you drug me?”

“You’re on strong painkillers. I wasn’t expecting you to wake up for sometime.” There’s something almost sheepish about his tone. Right the hair petting thing. 

Wash doesn’t know whether that’s reassuring or even more troubling. He glances down at himself. Everything else looks to be in order. There’s bruises on his arms, probably where Felix had been holding him down, and it feels like there might be more further down his chest, but he’s not taking off his shirt with Locus there. 

A tiny part of his mind brings up the plan. That getting Locus alone to get information out of him was the whole reason he fucking put himself here in the first place. Right… right, he’ll get on that. Once the world is done trying to slip out from under him and his stomach settles.

His hand keeps moving over his upper chest. What’s it going to look like now? There’s probably stitches with how deep Felix was cutting. It doesn’t matter. He knows that, it’s not like he’s any stranger to scars. But he can’t force it out of his head. 

Damn it. Wash gives himself a little internal shake and blinks a few times, trying to get some of the fog out of his head. If he can just think straight, finally get some fucking answers the scars won’t be for nothing. Just focus. 

He looks at Locus again, finding him tense as ever, still as a statue at the foot of the bed. The only thing that’s moving are his eyes, flicking to Wash then away again over and over. It’s as though he’s expecting an attack. Maybe if Wash could move more than a few inches without feeling dizzy, that would make sense. 

“How long have I been here?” he asks. It’s not an important question, not really, not where the mission is concerned, but it tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. And as soon as it does, it’s all Wash wants to know. 

“Fifteen days.” There’s no hesitation in Locus’ voice. Apparently that’s not information he has to hide, or… or maybe that pinched, pained expression on his face isn’t just discomfort at being there. 

Weird. How the hell does someone kill half a planet and still know how to feel guilt?

That’s probably not it. Maybe nerves. That could make sense. Wash’s head is still too fuzzy to properly sift through all the possibilities, he can barely let the answer sink in properly. 

Just more than two weeks. Huh… somehow he had thought it had to be more. It feels like it’s been a month or more. Going without natural light has thrown his sense of time so far off. 

He nods a little and shifts on the bed, grimacing and shutting his eyes tightly when the world spins. The mattress creaks and Wash opens one eye to find Locus reaching for him. Wash flinches away before he can think twice, curling in on himself and sucking in a breath through his nose when his stomach protests the movement with a sick lurch. 

When he manages to glance at Locus again, he’s retreated back to the corner of the bed, brow furrowed in what might be concern. “Agent Washington, are… do you need a medic?”

Wash shakes his head and holds up a hand, half to stop him asking questions. A few deep breaths get the world to stop spinning as he runs a hand over his face. The last thing he needs is more people. Not when he’s finally got Locus alone. This is his chance and he’s fucking it up. Just breathe and remember the mission. The rest of it doesn’t matter. 

He presses his back to the wall again, something to ground him, keep him feeling steady. Alright, alright, he can do this. 

The sooner he gets the information, the sooner he can work on getting the hell out of here. 

Locus is watching him carefully when he looks over, every inch of him tense, poised to jump a the slightest sound. He looks… shaken, for lack of a better word. What the hell happened with him and Felix while Wash was out? Maybe he can use that. 

“Why did you leave me with him?” he asks, a hint of accusation in his voice. 

For a second, Locus looks stricken, almost like Wash had hit him. There’s a sick sense of satisfaction at that. Not that it lasts for a long. “I wasn’t given a choice. Our orders have become less lenient lately. I was needed elsewhere and Felix was given free reign as long as he didn’t cause you unnecessary harm.”

“So much for that,” Wash says before he can stop himself. Locus doesn’t flinch this time, but he does sigh and nod. 

“I’ve arranged for him to be kept away for the time being. Price is… accommodating when he wants to be.” There’s something stiff about his voice, like he’s not happy about that for some reason. 

“Yeah, I remember that.” Wash nods idly. “He likes to let you think he’s on your side.”

His brow furrows a little as he looks toward Locus again. He’s not looking at him anymore, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, the line of his jaw tight and sharp. Locus’ hands are at the edge of the bed, clenched and biting into the mattress. 

“Why… why did you tell me about him?” Wash keeps his voice low, though he doubts that’s going to do much if the room is bugged properly. 

Locus’ hands twitch and it’s hard to tell what his face is doing from this angle, but Wash is sure he’s not happy. “That was… a miscalculation on my part. A mistake that has yet to be corrected.” 

Again, that strange stiffness. But… if Wash knows the room is bugged, then Locus definitely does. They can’t talk like this, not really, and Locus knows it. But the set of his jaw, the tense line of his shoulders, it’s… it’s almost like he wants to. 

“How do you intend to correct it?” 

Locus’ jaw twitches. “I don’t. But in time, it will hardly matter. Plans are already in motion to ensure our victory.”

Well that’s ominous. 

“That’s why you’ve stopped attacking us, isn’t it?” If they’ve got some grand scheme to get rid of them all, it makes sense that they’d stop bothering with smaller assaults. 

For some reason, that makes Locus look at him, one eyebrow rising. “Strange… I was under the impression that you already had at least some idea of what our plans are.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. God, Wash’s head is still too full of fog for this, he’s fucking it up. Just breath. 

Wash keeps his face impassive. At least he has a decent poker face… unlike Locus. And he needs an advantage he can get at the moment. “Does that matter? It sounds like you’ve already figured out how to stop us if we try.”

It’s hard not to hold his breath as Locus looks at him, gaze intense and questioning. After a moment, something in his eyes hardens, his jaw clenching as he nods. “We have more than enough resources to eliminate you at any time.”

That’s… not a surprise. It makes sense, of course they’d take this time to build up their forces and find a better way to deal with the people of Chorus. But if they’re ready to wipe them out and haven’t, what else could they be doing?

He doesn’t get a chance to ask, because there’s a faint static sound and then Locus presses a finger to his ear, probably to a comm, looking away from Wash with a scowl. He rises smoothly from the bed and heads for the door, pausing to pull some kind of device from his pocket. Probably to deal with the electric current running through the knob. 

It occurs to Wash then… he never saw Felix use one of those. He had always just paused briefly, probably letting someone on the outside deal with that, usually throwing a few more barbs Wash’s way. 

But Locus pauses, finger on the button, glancing back at Wash. “I’ll be back later. A medic will come by to inspect the stitches at some point. If you attempt to deal with them yourself, you’ll be restrained more permanently or moved to less hospitable quarters.”

It doesn’t sound like a threat, not the way Felix would say it, just a statement or fact… almost a warning. And then Locus is gone, leaving Wash alone with his thoughts. 

And there’s more than enough of those to keep him up all night. 

If they have more than enough forces to decimate Chorus, why haven’t they? Isn’t that what they’re here for? Felix had mentioned other plans, but no details. Plans that must need them alive for… some reason. It can’t be an accident that they aren’t killing people anymore. But why? What’s changed?

Price is the obvious answer. And… something to do with the temples, though Wash can’t even begin to guess what. Maybe they intend to hold the people of Chorus hostage? Use them for… something. 

Damn it, his head is still spinning and it’s too hard to stay focused. Too many outlandish ideas coming to mind. Alright just… just think. He knows Price. What could Price want here? What would Price want people around for? 

He’s always been good at using people, figuring out what makes them tick… and with supplies dwindling they’re going to get desperate, looking for anything to keep them alive. Maybe he’s going to use that. Maybe… maybe he means to double cross the mercs?

But no… no Price isn’t really in charge here, that’s not how he operates. And he wouldn’t risk his position here to join a small, dying force on a planet that’s already been decimated. No he must want to use them.

It’s what he wants to use them for that’s the problem. Knowing Price, it’s nothing good. 

* * *

The medic comes before Locus, along with two other guards, who keep their guns trained on him as the medic examines his stitches. Wash is pretty sure that’s overkill, but he doesn’t say anything. Locus might have been able to get Felix off of him, but he’s not sure he’d be willing to take on three pirates for him. 

Honestly, Wash doesn’t want to know whether he would or not. Neither answer is a good one for a whole host of reasons. 

When Locus comes back, he’s in armor. 

The door opens quietly and Wash glances toward it, frowning. No one seems to come in, but then there’s a faint shimmer and the door closes again. Huh. Wash cocks an eyebrow and then glances at the camera in the corner. 

He doesn’t bother trying to spot Locus moving about the room, instead laying back on the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know why you’re bothering with the camouflage. The room is bugged, isn’t it? Or… did you turn off the mics?”

For a few long moments, there’s not a response, not so much as the shift of a foot against the carpeted floor. 

“They’re off,” Locus finally says. “I can keep them off until I leave. But the camera is out of my control now.”

_ Now _ . Well that’s an interesting addendum there. But Wash can ponder just what that means later. Locus probably can’t stay long, got to ask his questions while he has the chance… and maybe figure out why the hell he’s there in the first place. 

“You don’t want them listening? That’s not like you. I thought you didn’t want to go against your orders.”

There’s a low sound, almost like a growl from the corner of the room. “I am not disobeying. I only… I don’t want anything overheard that could be perceived incorrectly.”

Wash blinks, brow furrowing a little. If that’s how Locus wants to justify this… whatever it is to himself, he’s not going to complain, if that means a chance at getting some answers out of him. Another idea occurs to him. 

“Or you don’t want anything overheard that could set Felix off again?”

No response. Well that’s promising. Wash isn’t exactly in a big hurry to find himself on the wrong end of Felix’s knife again. 

“So why are you here? If you’re not disobeying orders, why come talk to me?” It’s an honest question. Locus can’t just be there because he’s bored. And there’s a few theories Wash hasn’t been able to get out of his head. 

“I… am of the opinion that you are still a potential asset,” Locus says slowly, sounding like he’s picking his words very carefully there. 

Maybe he’s wearing the armor so Wash can’t tell what his face is doing. It’s certainly much harder to get a read on him like this, or figure out what the hell that means. Locus can’t still be trying to win him over, not now, not after everything…

But he had told him about Price. Maybe it hadn’t been a warning or a cry for help, but an attempt to earn his trust. Or to tell him that it’s better to give in and switch sides. 

Wash keeps his eyes down, not looking at the spot where Locus’ voice is coming from. Or where it sounds like it might be anyway. Looking up sharply at the wrong spot would show weakness and he can’t afford that right now. He has to try to think. 

Locus is still trying to win him over, still vouching for him, for… for whatever reason. He’s not dwelling on that part. 

Though he could. 

Wash isn’t stupid. He knows what Locus wants here, that connection between them. Maybe he got a bit of hope when Felix tried to take the mark and Wash panicked. And Wash could use that. It would be so easy to turn that against him, make Locus think there’s a chance. And fuck is it tempting. 

But he can’t sink that low. He’s not quite that desperate. Not yet anyway. 

So he scoffs and leans his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling now, fighting the urge to scan every inch of the room for that faint waver in the air. It doesn’t matter where Locus is. He’s not going to hurt him, not now, not when he’s got hope for them as unfounded as that hope might be. Wash is pretty sure he can rely on that for the moment anyway. 

Pulling Locus’ strings like Price is a little too much, but well… he’s not above doing what he has to to stay alive. 

“And what does Price think of that?” he asks eventually, deciding not to poke holes in Locus’ theory just yet. 

“He isn’t convinced. He finds you… surprisingly hard to predict now, but he thinks that your loyalty to the simulation troopers might outweigh your common sense.”

Wash can’t stop himself from snorting at that one. Alright, Price hasn’t lost his touch. Which… isn’t great, but he can’t really argue with that assessment. 

“So you think that abandoning the people of Chorus is common sense?”

“Your supplies are dwindling, and your soldiers are barely more than children still arguing over toys on a playground. Without the influence of you and the simulation troopers, they were already primed to tear each other apart. If we wanted to stamp them out, we could do so in an instant. Remaining on their side is little better than suicide.”

“I’d take suicide over genocide any day.”

“Strange. Given your history, I’d expect you to try to save yourself… and maybe your friends by any means necessary.”

That’s a jab that’s… probably well earned, though not from Locus. Wash blows a breath out his nose and shrugs. “People change. Isn’t that what you’re here to do? Get me to change my mind about all this?”

“I’m here to make you understand that any hope you have is pointless and delusional at best,” Locus says, a bit more of a bite to his words now. “When Price puts his plans into action, there will be no stopping what is to come. Better to spare yourself and join us now than suffer along with the rest of them.”

Suffer… not die. Strange. Locus doesn’t dance around his death threats.

“But he hasn’t done it yet. The people of Chorus could stop him.” Wash pauses, glancing around the room, eyes lingering on the corner where he’s about ninety-five percent sure Locus is. “You could stop him.”

There’s a low rumbling sound like a growl and the air in the corner shifts and shimmers. “Not all of us are so easily given to betrayal, Agent Washington. I have my orders, and I intend to follow them.”

“Then I guess we don’t have anything else to talk about.”

Wash waits for the rebuttal, for Locus to protest, but it doesn’t come. He doesn’t rise to the challenge. Instead, there’s a rumbling sigh. “No… I suppose not.”

The air shifts and the carpet indents under heavy footfalls to the door. Well fuck. So much for that conversation.

* * *

Locus returns again and again, in and out of armor. Any time he’s there without his helmet, Wash makes note of the ever growing dark circles under his eyes. He looks worn down, like he’s running on empty, and Wash has to put a harsh, severe lid on the sympathy that threatens to rise. The one that reminds him that he knows what it’s like, to be so tired, to just be following orders, to do what he thinks needs to be done. 

Wash isn’t stupid. He knows what Stockholm Syndrome is, and he’s pretty sure that’s exactly what Locus is trying to do here. Let him see just enough weakness for the sympathy to grow into something that he or Price can use. But as long as he knows, and as long as it’s just Locus coming to see him, he can handle it. 

The problem arises when he’s moved. 

Pirates wake him roughly and Wash tries to lash out, but there’s already cuffs around his wrists and a sharp blow to his jaw knocks him for a loop long enough for one of them to force a blindfold over his eyes. He bites at the inside of his cheek and swallows the panic rising in his throat. 

Just breathe. If he fights and struggles, it’ll just be worse for him. Not like he can do much against them like this anyway. The glimpses he got revealed four of them in full armor, and without his, he could maybe deal with two before the others had him down for the count. 

He struggles a little, but can’t really do much to stop them when two haul him up by his arms and march him out of the room. Giving up on trying to get free, he tries to count the steps in his head, keeping track of the twists and turns. He’s counted almost fifty, two lefts and a rights, but then it’s all pointless because there’s a slight pinching feeling of a needle biting into his neck and everything fades away. 

The blindfold is gone when he wakes up in a small, dimly lit box of a room. Wash glances around, trying to blink the bleariness out of his eyes. A glance down at himself tells him he’s back in his kevlar undersuit for some reason, which has the dual effect of making him feel a bit more protected and a bit violated at the same time. Damn it. He’s sitting in a chair--correction, he’s tied to a chair, his arms fixed to the armrests quite securely. Someone doesn’t want to take chances. 

“Ah, good afternoon Agent Washington, good to see you coming around.” And there’s the someone. 

Aiden Price looks perfectly at ease across the table from him, hands resting on the flat surface, fingers laced together, a placid smile on his face. Unflappable as ever. Some things never change apparently. 

He looks… maybe a bit older? A few lines on his forehead that are new, but other than that, he looks just like the man that still haunts Wash in his dreams, the voice he hears telling him that the others have died, that it’s all his fault, that he needs to do better.

And Wash takes a breath to try to put out the burning hate. It dulls to a low simmer, but doesn’t fade. “I was wondering when I’d get an appointment with you.”

“Oh? Well, I’m sorry if you’ve felt neglected. I’ve been rather preoccupied lately, not much time to reconnect with old friends.”

Wash lets out a bitter bark of a laugh. “Friends? Is that what we were? Funny, I think I missed that memo.”

Price sighs, tipping his head slightly to one side. “Perhaps coworkers is a more appropriate term? I never intended to make you an enemy, Washington. I only ever wanted to help you and the others.”

“Really?” Wash can’t even try to bite back the caustic tone. “Is that what you call it? Helping? That’s seriously what you’re going with here?”

One of Price’s eyebrows rises, but he remains impassive, a calm, collected brick wall. Just like always. “It is. My intention was always to do what was necessary to help the project succeed. The fact that… my definition of success and the Director’s were different is what likely led to any discontent you and the other agents may have experienced.”

“You really haven’t changed at all, have you?” There’s no holding back the incredulous look Wash knows is spreading over his face. Even when he knows what Price is doing, the man still manages to jab at every last one of his buttons. “You’re blaming the Director for the fact that you manipulated me and everyone else for years?  _ Really _ ?”

Price is stoic as ever in the face of Wash’s rising screech. “I’m not blaming anyone, Agent Washington. I’m merely trying to make it clear that things don’t have to be hostile between us here.”

“But you expect them to be hostile?” Which… isn’t unfair to assume. Wash’s hands are already clenching at the armrests of his chair, straining against the ropes holding him down. If not for those, he probably would’ve already driven his fist into Price’s stupid smug face. 

The corner of Price’s mouth twitches up ever so slightly and he lets out a soft almost laugh, like they’re sharing some kind of private joke. “You must understand, I have no hard feelings about anything that happened during the project or your… attempts at destroying it. But I’m very well aware of the fact that you’re still harboring some resentment toward me.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle.” Just breathe. Wash knows this game. If Price wants to play, he’ll fucking play. “So then why risk talking to me at all? I figured since you never stopped by my room, you weren’t going to.”

“As I said there were other matters I had to attend to. I know the mercenaries have told you that I’m, well… not to sound arrogant, but rather instrumental to our current plans--”

“Your plans,” Wash says, cutting him off and getting a raised eyebrow in return. “They’ve told me that you’re the one calling the shots now, at least here anyway. I know there’s someone else in charge, but they’re letting you pick out the battle strategy.”

“Indeed. It seems you and Locus have had some informative conversations I was not aware of.” Price doesn’t seem surprised, rebounding as smoothly as ever. “My current employer has been open to my suggestions, far more so than the Director ever was.”

“Congratulations then. I’m glad you’ve found your place working with a genocidal maniac, that must be nice.”

That actually seems to give Price pause and he sighs, face falling a little. “While I would hardly call them maniacs, I cannot say that I’ve agreed to… all of their practices for acquiring this planet’s assets. Which is why it’s fortunate that they have been so willing to listen to my ideas on how to prevent further bloodshed.”

Wash snorts, he can't help it. “When did you get so moral?”

“This is hardly a matter of morality, Agent Washington. I doubt that would mean much to them in any case. The desperate and the powerful are strangely alike in that regard.”

“So which are you?” Wash asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Price’s faint smile returns. “I thought that was obvious. I did not find myself in this arrangement purely by choice, Agent Washington. You and I are alike in some ways, you know. We are both capable of reaching points where we will do whatever is necessary for our freedom.”

“My freedom never came at the expense of an entire planet.”

“Ah yes… but if it had, do you truly think you would have walked away? Would you have taken the higher ground and been content to spend the rest of your life in a cell?”

And Wash hates that he doesn’t have an answer to that. 

At least Price doesn’t smirk. His tiny smile is understanding, his eyes almost kind and that just makes Wash want to drive his fist into them that much harder. It’s like he can feel the sympathy creeping out, sickly sweet, trying to sink into his skin. The chair must be bolted to the floor, because Wash’s attempts to jerk back are getting him nowhere. 

Shifting in his seat, Price apparently takes his silence for all the answer he needs. Wash can’t pretend there’s not plenty hanging in it. “In any case, perhaps it would make you feel better to know that I have dissuaded my employer from the complete annihilation of the people of Chorus.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do you want a medal? Congratulations on not committing genocide, I bet that’ll look nice on your wall. You expect me to believe you have something better planned instead?”

“I would think any alternative would be preferable to death,” Price says mildly.

“Then you’d think wrong.” He’s said it to Tucker before, death or worse. His admitted penchant for dramatics aside, he had meant it at the time. There’s plenty of things worse than dying. At least when someone dies, it’s over, they’re done. They don’t have to hurt anymore. That ‘any alternative’ bit sends a slight shudder down his spine. 

“I see you’re still fond of theatrics, Agent Washington. It’s nice knowing some things haven’t changed. I hardly think that… what I have in mind, should my theories be correct, would be particularly unpleasant for the people of this planet.”

“Are you going to tell me what that is? Or is this just ominous posturing?” Price is good at that, good at giving just enough hints that no matter what the truth is, the guesses are so much worse. “Because, if it’s the latter, I think I’d rather just hold my breath until I pass out so we can skip this part.”

Price’s brow furrows a little, hands parting so he can drum his fingers on the table for a moment, apparently thinking. He’s not one to brag like Felix, but Wash is pretty sure that there’s a fair amount of pride taken from his orchestrations. The question is what reaction he wants here, because he’ll say just what he needs to to get it, no more, no less.

“Do you know why this planet was chosen for colonization and subsequently abandoned by the UNSC, Agent Washington?” Price asks after several moments. 

Wash’s eyebrows rise. “Not really. Does it matter?”

“You could say it’s the only thing about this planet that does matter,” Price says far too easily. “The UNSC doesn’t do things by accident. There have been dozens of successful colonies on remote planets, many that went on to gain independence peacefully, but Chorus is rather different. What do you suppose Chorus has that those other colonies lack?”

Biting back a few less than polite responses, Wash honestly thinks about it. The answer comes slowly, bubbling out of the back of his mind. “The alien temples?”

“Indeed. Does it not seem strange that these temples are capable of powering not only themselves, but entire cities? That is no small amount of energy.”

“So the UNSC wants that power? Why not just start the place off as a mining colony?”

Price tips his head slightly to one side. “Did I say it was the UNSC that wanted the power? You misunderstand, Agent Washington. From what I have gathered from my employer, the higher ranking members of the UNSC have elected to… more or less overlook Chorus for the proper price.”

“Your employer? I don’t supposed you feel like telling me who that is?”

The corner of Price’s mouth quirks up ever so slightly. Smug bastard. “Not particularly. The only reason I’m telling you any of this is because I want you to understand.”

“Understand what?”

Though he stays right where he is, something about Price’s expression, the way he sets his shoulders makes it seem like he’s looming closer, a great bird of prey ready to swoop down at any instant. “Understand just what is going to happen to all those people you call friends. Understand that… had you made a different choice, a better choice, you could have been standing at my side. Understand that if you had done so, you could’ve kept your undeserved freedom.”

Wash tries to fight back a shiver. It would be easier if Price was angry, if he sounded bitter and vengeful. But it’s that calm, even tone that does it. That assurance that Price knows just what he’s doing, that it isn’t about revenge, that cold, collected certainty that this is simply how things are.

He squares his shoulders, doing his best to look unruffled, but the curl of Price’s lips says he isn’t fooled. Of course he isn’t. “Then make me understand. What are you planning? You’re not going to kill them, so what is it?”

“All in due time, Agent Washington. It will all become clear once we arrive.”

“Arrive?” Wash blinks. For the first time since he looked across the table to find Price, Wash looks round the box they’re in and then he goes still, trying to listen. It’s faint, but there’s a dull rumbling sound, a soft crunch of wheels on dirt, and the barely there creak of machinery. 

They’re moving. 

Whatever they’re in, it must be massive, though not a spaceship. It’s running too damn smoothly, more like it’s gliding than driving over the ground. The room has to have some damn thick walls, maybe it’s partially sound proofed. There’s no hint of a window and only one door just behind Price. Wherever they’re going, Wash clearly isn’t meant to see it just yet. 

Maybe that’s why Price is here. To keep him talking, keep him busy until they get to wherever the hell it is. It’s pointless to ask, but Wash does anyway. 

Price seems somewhat amused, one eyebrow rising the tiniest fraction up his forehead. “Why don’t you guess? I’ve given you plenty of pieces, why not try to put them together yourself?”

If he’s confident enough to talk in metaphors, they’re probably halfway to wherever it is they need to be for Price to put his little plans into action. But Wash tries to think more specifically, his brows knitting together. “Another temple?”

“Very good, Agent Washington.”

“Why? Haven’t you gotten plenty of power from the others?” 

Price lets out a breath and faintly shakes his head. “We have, but that’s not the right question. Try again.”

Wash seethes, hands curling into fists even as he works to clamp down on the rising surge of irritation. How was Price ever allowed to counsel people? The line between sympathy and condescension doesn’t seem to exist for him. Maybe the Director  _ liked  _ that.    


He fights his way out of old bitterness and thinks. What’s the right question? Price made it sound like it wasn’t the power they were after. Maybe they’d gotten enough. Maybe that was never what it was about in the first place, just an added bonus. He doesn’t know enough about the damn temples. They seem to be all over the place almost at random. 

But… but maybe they aren’t. Maybe there’s a reason for them, a specific reason for each of them. 

“What are you trying to do with the temples? Why this one? Is there… something different about it?”

Price nods with approval and Wash wants to rip his arms off. “Indeed. I assume you have little experience with these structures?”

Wash just grunts noncommittally. Let Price assume him as ignorant as he likes, but Wash won’t admit to it. 

Fingers tented, Price leans back in his seat a little. “Each temple is unique. They have properties they share, of course, like the power supply you’re already aware of. But there is more. To explain… I suppose I must go back a bit, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m literally a captive audience, even if I wanted to listen, I would still be stuck here.”

“A fair point.” Price clears his throat, shifting a bit in his seat as he pulls a datapad from his pocket. He pulls up a document that glows blue and slides it across the table. Wash looks over it reluctantly, finding not a document, but pictures of rocks covered in a script he can’t read, but one he’s seen plenty of before. 

“The alien language,” Price says, “is one that not many have bothered to learn. However, the mercenaries were conscious enough of its possible importance to not destroy the markings in the hopes that someone might be able to translate them.”

“I assume that’s what you’re here for?”

“Indeed. Quite fortunate for me that I can read them, I believe that may be the only reason I’m still here.” That’s a heavy admission, one that has Wash’s eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. If that’s Price trying to gain his sympathy, it’s not going to happen, but… he’ll tuck it away for later. 

Anything he has over Price is worth holding onto with both hands. 

“So you translated this? What’s it say?”

“Many things. In particular, it speaks of the different temples, their purposes and supposed abilities.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow curiosity managing to sneak out past the irritation. “Abilities? Like the one that brings ships down?”

“Very good, Agent Washington. That one has been… corrupted. It was meant to be a temple of returning, to guide in ships for a safe landing. The mercenaries and pirates damaged it and managed to activate it and manipulate it to their purposes.”

“Is that what you’re trying to do now? Corrupt another temple?” Wash honestly has no idea what that means, but it sounds like the sort of thing a villain in a children’s cartoon would do, which is a little… less subtle than Price’s usual standards.

“Nothing so extreme,” Price says, shaking his head. “I merely mean to find one temple in particular and put it to use.”

“Which one?”

Price smiles again. “That would be telling, Agent Washington. And rather pointless, you will see for yourself soon enough. We should be nearly there.”

And Wash’s heart lurches, anxiety rolling his gut. Almost there. Almost to wherever Price is going to put all of his plans into action and he still knows next to nothing. He’s using the temple for… for something. Not to wipe out everyone on Chorus, but Wash can’t believe it’s much more pleasant. 

Price isn’t getting up yet, he seems to be checking a map of some kind on his datapad, it’s hard to see much of it from where Wash is sitting. He’s not getting up, they aren’t there yet. He still has time. 

“What can these temples do? What were the ones in Praxis and Typhe for? Were they… they weren’t the one you were looking for…”

“Correct.” Price looks almost impressed, pulling his attention away from the datapad. “I have been searching for this one for some time. I eliminated those two as possibilities rather quickly, though the power they supplied was still invaluable. But otherwise, we had little use for the Temple of Water and the Temple of Time was too… delicate to manipulate without dire consequences for all of us.”

For some reason, Wash doesn’t like the sound of that. “Just how powerful are these temples?”

“It varies. At most, they can only affect Chorus, but to what extent… I’m not certain. If the writings are to be believed, well… for example, the Temple of Water could remove all water from the surface of the planet, or cover all of Chorus in an endless ocean.”

And that’s the one they have no use for. There’s a strange chill that sets heavily onto his shoulders, pressing down, trying to creep over his nose and mouth. They could’ve drowned the world. He doesn’t even want to know what the time one could do. 

But that leaves the big question: where the hell are they going now?

He doesn’t get a chance to ask before they get there. 

* * *

The temple is massive. Wash has to wonder if the others have seemed smaller because they were covered in water or rock. This one is still half growing out of a hillside, dead grass stretching out all around it for miles, a few barren trees shifting in the wind. 

It looks a little out of place, except where it doesn’t. The rock and stone that seem to make it up are weathered, made smooth by the rush of wind against it. How fucking long has it been there? A single tower rising out of an empty rolling plain. The only thing that looks more out of place is the massive vehicle Locus leads him out of. Once they’d come to a stop, the mercenary had stopped by the room, letting Price leave before fixing a pair of cuffs around Wash’s wrists and motioning for him to following. 

There must be at least a dozen pirates keeping the transport going, but it’s just him, Locus, Felix, and Price that head toward the temple. As they draw closer, Wash can make out indents in the rock, that same script Price had shown him before. Felix looks to Price and ushers him forward with a mocking curtsey. “After you.”

If Price is bothered, he doesn’t let it show, stepping up to examine the massive sloping stone. There’s a place that looks like two solid stone doors, closed tightly against the wind. Probably the entrance, though Wash is willing to bet it’s not the kind of place you just walk into. 

For a few moments, Price examines the script on the stone. Wash can’t see his face, but watches the set of his shoulders. After a few moments, he seems to straighten in triumph before he looks back to the mercenaries. “This is it.”

“You sure?” Felix cocks his helmeted head to one side. “Looks pretty shitty. It’s not even glowing.”

“It will, once it’s been activated,” Price says, sounding certain as he brushes a hand over the stone. He pulls something from his pocket. It’s small and Wash can see a hint of a strangely familiar glow between his fingers as he presses it to the line between the doors. 

The temple doesn’t light up, but a shimmer rushes over it, starting at the point of contact. Then there’s a great creaking groan and Price steps back as the doors slowly open wide before them. 

Price looks back toward Felix, one eyebrow rising. “Satisfied?”

Felix scoffs and shoulders past him. “I’ve seen you open a dozen doors before, don’t get ahead of yourself. Still don’t know if it’s gonna do what you say. Put your money where you mouth is first, Price.”

“I certainly intend to.” And there’s no bite to Price’s voice, there never is, but there’s something about the way he watches after Felix as he heads into the temple, waiting before he follows after him. There’s something there, something simmering. Wash suddenly decides he doesn’t want to be anywhere near it when it boils over. 

He glances back at Locus, who’s apparently not feeling particularly chatty today. Without a word, he locks a hand around Wash’s bicep and starts into the temple. 

It occurs to Wash then that he has no idea why they’re bringing him along. Price doesn’t usually need an audience, nor does Locus. Felix might like one, but as far as Wash can tell, he’s not calling the shots here. As they move further in, Wash risks a glance over his shoulder. For a second, he spots a group of pirates standing sentinel outside the transport and, for the briefest of moments, there’s a flash of teal before Locus guides him around a corner and they all disappear from view. 

There’s a slight incline to the floor and Wash gets the sense of moving slowly beneath the surface of the planet. It’s dim inside, the only light coming from strange, luminescent stones placed along the wall and the occasional ripple or spark of glowing blue energy, traveling along lines of the walls like blood through a vein. Great planes of darkly colored glass seem to serve as windows, but they might as well be walls for all the light they let in, the world outside looking strangely dim and shadowed. 

The air isn’t musty like he expects it to be. It’s strangely cool and fresh and moving, like standing on a beach in a light breeze. Wash glances around the walls. They seem to stretch up for forever, slowly slanting together as Locus guides him along after Price through the winding hallways. 

They’re going further and further down, Wash is sure, the temperature dropping with them. He’s suddenly glad for the kevlar again, the insulation keeping him from shivering against a breeze from nowhere. 

There’s a light up in front, Felix, but beyond that, it gets harder to see, the occasional ripples casting an eerie, moving blue light over the four of them. Wash has no idea how long they’ve been walking, but it feels like it’s been hours by the time Price puts his hand up, motioning for them to stop. He holds up the small glowing device he had used to open the door and moves toward a wall next to him. There’s lines there like the outside of the temple that Wash hadn’t even noticed in the ever darkening shadows. 

Price presses the device to the door and a shivering glow ripples over the. Everything is still for a moment and then the doors open, a soft gust of wind blowing back at them, almost like the temple is sighing. 

Bright light streams out from inside the door and Wash ducks, throwing up his arms in front of his face. By the time he blinks away the flickering spots in his vision, Price is already heading into the room, Felix hot on his heels. A little tug from Locus has him following after, down a well lit set of stairs into a massive open chamber. 

The brightly glowing stones are everywhere, lining the ceiling, walls and floor. They seem to almost be pulsing, the light brightening and dimming rhythmically, almost like a heartbeat. The chamber is round only because there’s no name for a shape Wash can think of that has enough sides to be appropriate. 

Cavernous walls stretch up impossibly high overhead, curling together to make the roof. A single, massive stone sits in the center of ceiling, dangling down like some kind of bizarre alien chandelier, reaching nearly to the floor. Directly beneath it is a dully colored stone that… looks almost like some kind of flower, the petals spread wide over the floor, strange, branching lines coming off and winding over the floors, up the walls, sinking into the corners of the room. They look more like veins than vines, spidery and thin, dimly colored, like a light switched off, except for the occasional drifting spark moving along them. 

“What the hell is this place?” Felix asks, voicing the question Wash can’t stop wondering.

“The center of the temple, the place where we will activate it.” Price’s voice sounds strange somehow. He walks around the strange rock of a chandelier, hands outstretched toward it, palms open, though he doesn’t touch it as he moves in a slow circle. 

“So this is the one then?” Felix sounds more interested now as he takes a step closer, looking around the room. 

“I’m quite certain it is.” Price moves around to the far side of the chandelier, and Wash gets a good look at the awestruck expression on his face in the pulsing glow. He looks almost transfixed, like he can’t tear his eyes away from it. 

Both Felix and Locus jolt at the same time and then Felix moves suddenly, heading for the door. “Sounds like our company’s here, I’ll go see her in,” he says, and Wash can hear the unpleasant smile in his voice as he goes. 

Her. Fuck. Carolina. But maybe there's hope, if anyone can take down… however many pirates it was out there without getting caught, it would be her. They can’t have caught her, there’s no way. 

But a few moments later, Felix returns with a pair of pirates, the three of them pulling a still struggling Carolina between them. Wash curses under his breath as they toss her into the room. Her weapons are gone, as is her helmet, though Wash doesn’t have to look far to find that. For some reason, Felix has it under his arm. He gives a hand signal and the pirates retreat out of the room, probably moving to stand guard outside the door. 

“Welcome to the show, Carolina,” Felix says, chest somehow looking puffed up and proud even with all the armor. “And here I was thinking we’d have to start without you.”

“Good Afternoon, Agent Carolina.” Price sounds a bit more normal now, which is the strangest kind of relief. He moves around the strange rock, back toward them, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’re right on time, I expected no less from you.”

Carolina glares with such intensity, it’s amazing Price doesn’t burst into flames right there. “How long have you known I was following you?”

“I’ve had my suspicions since we captured Agent Washington. However, we only knew for certain once we left the compound and made our way here.”

That makes Wash feel the tiniest bit better about this plan, at least it hadn’t been that obvious what they were doing. Judging by the way Felix and Locus turn toward each other, Wash is willing to guess that Price didn’t let them in on those suspicions. Interesting. 

He hadn’t really known Price to act without the Director’s knowledge back in the project, but apparently Felix and Locus don’t warrant the same respect. Not that Wash can do much to use that now. 

“So what are we doing here,  _ Counselor _ ?” Carolina asks, biting out the title. “You never wanted to rub your plans in our faces before. Why now?”

The Counselor looks vaguely bemused, tipping his head slightly to one side. “Is that what you think I’m doing? My intent here is not to brag or rub anything into anyone’s face.”

“Yeah fucking right,” Felix mutters, arms crossing over his chest. 

Price doesn’t seem to hear him. He turns back toward the hanging rock, holding a palm toward it like one would a campfire. “You are here to witness and… perhaps participate in an experiment.”

Wash doesn’t like any part of that. He glances toward Carolina, who meets his eyes, face stony, giving away nothing. Her eyes look more angry than anything else. 

“What kind of experiment?” Wash asks, eyes flicking to the room’s centerpiece. “I thought this was all part of your grand plan. Do you not know how to turn this thing on?”

Price shakes his head. “I know precisely how to activate the temple. The texts have given instructions that are quite clear.”

He pauses, turning back toward them. “I suppose this is the time to welcome both of you to the Temple of Mind.”

Wash has… no idea what the hell that means. He glances at Carolina again and is sure one of her shoulders rises in a little half shrug.

Letting out a breath, Price shakes his head, seeming almost disappointed. “I assume that means nothing to either of you. This temple, like many of the others is immensely powerful. It is not something to be tampered with lightly--”

“Oh would you can it?” Felix strides forward, apparently tired of Price taking the limelight. He steps toward the dangling rock and lightly knocks a fist against it. Price makes a noise of protest, but it comes too late to stop the vibration that spreads from the centerpiece. 

It hits and Wash suddenly feels a wave crash against his brain, trying to force it out his ears. Locus must let go of him, because he’s able to stumble and stagger away from him, just barely managing to stay on his feet, despite the fact that the world suddenly seems to be shifting and turning under him. The wave pushing at his brain sprouts tendrils that shoot off sparks down his spine, his muscles suddenly tensing up. For a second, he can’t move, but then the wave abates and he sucks in a deep breath as the world rights itself. 

“It is unwise to interact with the temple if you don’t know what will happen.” Price sounds strangely steady. 

Wash manages to get his eyes to focus and glances around. Carolina is bracing herself against the wall, looking as though she’s about ready to empty the contents of her stomach onto the floor. Locus is nearby, but sunk to his knees, clutching at his head. Even Felix looks a bit shaken, now several feet away from the rock, which is now pulsing with a new sort of frantic timing. 

Price is the only one that looks to be unaffected. Of course, that means less than nothing. Wash has never seen the man look so much as concerned before. He has the kind of poker face card sharks dream about. 

“You could’ve said it was gonna fucking bite me,” Felix snaps, but he sounds a little ill. He shakes his head and steps closer to the rock again, though this time he keeps his hands to himself. 

“Had you given me the time, I could have warned you about the possible ill effects. This temple is very… sensitive. It attunes to the ones that awake it, but others that attempt to get too close to the heart are kept at bay.”

“Yeah, yeah, as long as it doesn’t do that shit again. So are we doing this, or what?”

Price holds his open palms toward the rock again. The pulsing seems to slow, like deep, even breathing, and he nods. “I believe the temple is ready to receive the sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?” Wash can’t stop the word from slipping out. Of course, why would it be anything else? He suddenly has a sneaking suspicion as to… just why he’s been brought along here. It’s hard not to shoot a look of betrayal at Locus, so he doesn’t bother resisting the urge. Not that it accomplishes much. Locus is still on his knees, faintly shaking his head, like the temple hasn’t finished with him quite yet. 

“Oh, did Price not mention that part?” Felix sounds downright gleeful. “Apparently it’s in all the ancient alien texts. All the temples have some kind of special activation mumbo jumbo. And some of them… hoo boy, that shit gets intense. My favorite is the Temple of Heat, gotta have someone literally set themselves on fire to get that one going. This one’s a pretty close second though.”

That can’t be good. Wash’s gaze drifts to the stone, the pulse suddenly far more ominous. “So what does this one want?”

Felix raises a hand like he’s going to touch the stone again, but catches himself halfway there. “This bad boy? It wants us to break a mind. Me and Price’ve been talking about it and I think we’ve got the best candidate for that right here.”

Wash glances Carolina’s way again. There’s a faint noise next to him and he looks over in time to see Locus get back to his feet. “Felix, what are you doing? This is not what we discussed. The other prisoner--”

“Was a backup plan,” Felix says, a slight edge to his voice. “We knew you wouldn’t go for this. Not with all your ‘I can win Agent Washington over’ bullshit. We let you play nice with him for weeks and where’d that get you? So now, we’re doing things my way… I mean our way,” he says, nodding at Price. 

“I do apologize for the deception, Locus. This was the only course of action that seemed possible. We did give you a chance. Had you succeeded, we would have gone along with the plan we informed you of. As it stands… that has become our fall back plan as Felix said,” Price says evenly, the perfect hint of feigned regret on his face. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Nothing ever does. 

“Why Agent Washington?” Locus bites out the question, taking a staggering step forward that nearly sends him back to the floor of the temple. He shakes his helmeted head and Felix laughs, high and mocking. 

“Damn, the temple really had it out for you, huh? Guess this place likes you? Or maybe it doesn’t.” Felix looks up at the pulsing stone, head tilting to one side, almost questioningly. 

Price mirrors him, his brow furrowing a little. “Curious. I wonder…”

He turns toward Felix, one brow raising ever so slightly. Whatever he’s trying to silently ask, it makes Felix growl and take a menacing step toward him. “We’re using the Freelancer. You said he was the best option, didn’t you? Do you know how to make him crack or not?”

Price’s shoulder’s slump for the briefest of moments and Wash is almost sure there’s a quick flicker of disappointment on his face, but it’s gone just as fast as it appeared. He turns inscrutable eyes toward Wash. For a second, Wash is absolutely sure Price can see right through him. 

Slowly Price nods. “I believe I do.”

“Don’t--” Locus takes another half step forward, but lurches back when there’s a sudden, sick thud as a knife from Felix embeds itself in Locus’ arm. 

Wash’s eyes go wide and he hears a sharp surprised inhale from Carolina as they watch Locus stagger back, pressing himself against the temple wall, hand closing around the hilt of the knife, though he doesn’t pull it out. The blade’s found a home right between the panels of his arm, sunk in deep. Not fatal, but Wash has been in enough knife fights to know when a knife hits a spot where it’s better to leave it in. 

“Stand down, Locus,” Felix says, barking out the order. “Don’t make me tell you again. You have your orders, be a good dog and follow them.”

Locus shifts on the spot, but he doesn’t say another word. Wash can only guess what his face is doing under his helmet. Apparently satisfied, Felix moves to stand next to Price. “So are we doing this or what? I’d like to get paid sometime this century.”

“I believe we are ready to proceed,” Price says, nodding. “I’m fairly certain we have another guest here. Epsilon?”

Wash holds his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Carolina go completely still. Felix knocks on her helmet, as if that’s going to make Epsilon project himself. “C’mon the longer you make this take, the worse it’s gonna get. Don’t make the man ask twice.”

Seconds pass and Wash can hear his heart in his ears. What the hell are they doing? What do they need Epsilon for if they’re using him to activate the temple? 

There’s a horrible prickling feeling at the back of Wash’s neck and suddenly the pieces are there, but he doesn’t want to put them together. No. No that can’t be the plan. No. 

After an eternity that’s over too soon, Epsilon’s hologram flickers into being. His tiny arms are crossed over his chest and he lifts his head defiantly. Price smiles and offers him a nod in greeting. “So good to see you again, Epsilon. I would ask if you remember me, but…”

Wash’s mouth curls into a scowl and he tries to shift, pulling subtly at the cuffs. There’s no way he can get out. Not like this. There’s no time. 

“You’re going to help us, Epsilon,” Price says, voice even and soothing in a way that makes Wash’s head hurt as a dozen simulations try to flare back to life. He’s heard that tone before, but he hasn’t. Not his memories. “We’re running… call it an experiment. Have you ever wondered what would happen if you and Wash were once again partnered up?”

Ice spreads through Wash’s veins and he fights down a scream. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it. They can’t. Epsilon can’t go back. He can’t he can’t he can’t. There’s been too many years spent putting his brain back together. He can’t do it again. 

They can’t make him. 

He looks at Epsilon, finding the helmeted head pointed his way as well. Though really it hardly matters where he’s looking. Epsilon’s in Carolina’s head and Wash can hear her shifting and struggling, trying to get out of her own cuffs. She snarls, narrowed eyes fixed on Price. 

Epsilon flickers and then laughs, but it’s forced. “What in the hell makes you think I’d go back in his head to find out?”

Good. Stay out. It’s already too crowded. 

Price tips his head to one side, not looking particularly concerned. “So you’re saying you won’t?”

“Fuck no!”

“Not even if Agent Washington’s life depended on it?”

The words drop like a stone and Epsilon flickers again. “The fuck are you talking about? Wash is fine?”

“Is he? Felix, if you would?”

Wash knows what’s going to happen a second before it does. Three blades fly through the air almost too fast to see and sink into his gut. The air leaves him as Wash topples back onto the cold temple floor. There’s a pained noise from Locus and a furious shout from Carolina, but neither do anything to stop the blood slowly pooling on the floor. 

“Wash no!” Epsilon’s voice screeches like it’s about to break. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I believe I should be asking you that question, Epsilon. I’m disappointed. I had thought you would try to help him,” Price says, shaking his head. 

“How the hell am I supposed to help him?! I’m a computer not a doctor!” Epsilon sounds frantic. 

“By running his healing unit, of course.” Price makes it sound obvious. “We’ve fitted his bodysuit with a healing unit that could easily be run by an AI. Unfortunately, we’ve neglected to bring along his armor.”

No storage unit. There’s only one place for Epsilon to go. 

Wash is suddenly glad he’s on the floor because he would almost certainly be far too dizzy to try to get up. The world is spinning. There’s blood in his mouth and it’s all he can do not to choke on it. 

“You know how to run a healing unit, don’t you, Epsilon?”

“Of fucking course I do,” Epsilon snaps, but his voice is so much weaker than it was a moment ago. He knows the options are shrinking down to one and Wash can’t spit out the blood fast enough to tell him no. 

“Then I believe you know what must be done.”

Epsilon flickers again as the world starts to go fuzzy around the edges. Carolina is yelling at him.

“Wash c’mon, don’t close your eyes! Wash damn it, stay with me!” She sounds pained, like she took a few of the blades herself. And Wash wants nothing more than to listen, but everything’s fading. 

Wash blinks, trying to focus. He locks onto Epsilon’s hologram and faintly shakes his head. Don’t. Please don’t. Just let it end. 

Epsilon is impossibly still, looking right at him. 

“I’m sorry, Wash.”

He can’t tell if the words are in his head or not, but then it doesn’t matter because Epsilon goes out and there’s a rush of static and the back of his neck burns and sparks flare up in his head and along his nerves as Epsilon fits himself into place. There’s a green glow at his chest as the healing unit activates and his ears fill with noise. 

_ I’m sorry.  _

And Epsilon clicks into his head and the word goes dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any more warnings people feel this chapter needs, please let me know! This one got super long, largely because I couldn't figure out where the heck to break it up that would work. I'm taking a looooot of liberties with the alien temples here and I know that. I just always wanted to play around with them, and also have a reason to shove Epsilon back into Wash's head, since I'm always going to be upset there wasn't closure there. Anyways, I hope you guys like this one, thanks so much for the kudos and comments! Next time, it's gonna get a little weird on the journey to the center of Wash's brain~


	31. The Past is the Past, You Need One Chance

Dying feels a lot like falling. 

Everything is dark. Wind should be rushing past his ears as he sinks into it, but it doesn’t. The silence is somehow worse. There’s nothing anywhere. Nothing nothing nothing. 

Until there’s not. 

There’s a faint ripple of light, the slightest blue pulse along the walls of the long, dark tunnel he’s falling down. Like the temple, thinks a part of his brain that he can’t find a second after the thought. That should be strange, but he can’t get things in order enough to focus on it. 

Everything is distant and quiet, like he must’ve fallen into the deepest part of the ocean. Maybe he can try to swim out. If only he knew which direction to go. If only he could feel any of his limbs to try to start moving. It doesn’t feel like he’s attached to them anymore. Like he’s attached to anything. 

Maybe that’s why he can’t stop falling. 

If he could just focus. Just think. Just remember. 

There’s more flickers on the walls. Blue sparks making ripples, fanning out. Like… like there’s something on the other side, something trying to get in. 

But he can’t let it in. Can’t let it touch. Can’t let it hurt. 

Not again not again not again. 

Again? 

He knows this. He’s… he’s been here. He knows these walls. If he could just remember. How did they get there? How long have they been there? Why… why were they built?

The sparks keep firing, shooting off smaller bursts that string together, connecting. Trying to break in. It’s going to hurt if those walls come down. It’s the only thing he’s sure of. The only thing he knows. It’s going to hurt. 

But if he doesn’t hurt, doesn’t let the walls down… will he ever stop falling?

He tries to turn, to look down, but he can’t move. Can’t figure out how he would even begin to turn if he could. If he could just get anything to make sense.

Or remember. 

It’s going to hurt if he remembers. He doesn’t know why, but he’s suddenly sure it will. If he stays here, if he keeps falling, there won’t be pain. There won’t be noise. Just nothing. Just him and the walls and that pulsing blue light. 

But that light isn’t very good company. It’s nice though. Bright but not blinding, making flickering arcs along the walls, shooting off sparks like fireworks without the boom. Maybe the boom with come if the walls go. Maybe that’s why it will hurt. 

He… he doesn’t like this. 

The thought is crystal clear, flickering into being like the sparks on the wall. 

He doesn’t want to keep falling. He doesn’t like the darkness or the quiet. They don’t hurt, but they don’t feel like anything else either. It’s all nothing. Cold, silent nothing. And he wants something else. 

Anything else. He wants out. 

He has to tear the walls down. Because he’s the one that put them there. The blue light can’t break in on its own. 

It won’t. 

It’s just waiting out there, waiting for him to bring the walls down. It’s giving him a choice. Letting him decide where to stay, what to do, what he wants. 

As if he was ever going to pick anything else. 

He’s… not completely sure how to do that, but it seems deciding is enough. The walls come down slow, drifting off bit by bit like ashes from a flame. 

Light starts flooding in and sound comes back, wind drifting past his ears as he finally hits the ground. 

* * *

_ “Wash? Wash can you hear me? Damn it--he’s still out.” _

_ “We can’t wait. Those doors aren’t going to hold.” _

_ “I know, I know. Help me carry them.” _

_ “Right.” _

_ “Just hold on, Wash.” _

* * *

He’s not awake when he opens his eyes and pushes himself up. But it’s a bit more than a dream.

The world around him shifts for a second before deciding what shape to take. It settles on Crash Site Bravo. Strange. Wash has tried to go deeper down into his head before and found only burnt out warehouses and deserts only desolate because the mines have already gone off and left them pockmarked and scarred. 

As he pushes himself up he looks a little more closely. It’s definitely the crash site, but… it’s not quite right. The Reds’ base is too far away and the grass is greener and more alive than it ever was in the real world. 

“So I got a couple of the details wrong, sue me,” says a voice behind him, trying to sound annoyed to hide the fear. “It’s not like I was actually here that long.”

Wash doesn’t have to turn, doesn’t want to, but he does. “I never thought I’d see you like this again.”

Epsilon looks different than Wash remembers. His face is younger, which doesn’t seem right, and his eyes are a bit different. Not the color, which is the same radioactive green, but the shape. They’re still familiar and it takes too long to click. 

Those aren’t the Director’s eyes. They’re Carolina’s. 

Epsilon cocks an eyebrow at his stare. “What? I got something on my face?”

“Your sister.”

Though he looks pretty solid, Epsilon flickers around the edges, mouth turning into a perfect ‘o’ of surprise before he lets out a surprised rush of a laugh and rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah well, don’t let her hear you saying that shit.”

For a second Wash almost asks why, but then he staggers, throwing a hand up to his head and he knows. Epsilon isn’t bleeding into him like he did before, but he can feel the places more clearly now, where two minds bump and knock against each other. There’s still places where Epsilon spills, where his jagged edges are a bit too sharp to fit properly back into the spots they should. 

Looking up, he finds Epsilon’s expression concerned and… almost scared, his hands half rising toward Wash, though he hasn’t moved closer. Not like he can’t, but like he doesn’t know how. They don’t know how to touch without hurting anymore. If they ever did. 

The back of Wash’s neck tingles and he presses a hand over it. “So you’re still in here?”

“No shit, dude. Gotta keep running the healing unit. You’re not dead, by the way, so you’re welcome,” Epsilon says, trying to sound indignant, but there’s no real bite to it. 

Wash’s hands move to his chest, enough though he knows a second later he wouldn’t feel a wound there anyway. His brow furrows and he suddenly knows he should look at the sky. “Did it work? Price’s plan?”

Did he doom them all? He still doesn’t know what the temple would do, what Price is using it for. Damn it. 

Epsilon shakes his head quickly, but he makes a strange face that promises nothing good. “No, you didn’t activate the temple.”

There’s something weirdly pointed about the way he says ‘you’. Wash gives him a questioning look and Epsilon blows out a breath, which… he shouldn’t have lungs to do. Whatever. This mindscape stuff only makes as much sense as he needs it to to keep things straight. 

And Epsilon probably has too many memories about being a person to care about whether he acts like one or not. Or maybe he’s spent so much time around the most human people Wash has ever met that it’s harder for him to act like a computer. 

“You just kinda shut down and put up this brain firewall thing,” he says, sounding sheepish, because Wash knows they’re both very well aware of why. “So you were out, not broken, or whatever the fuck Price wanted you to be. So uh, good job on that, I guess?”

“Thanks.” Wash’s voice is flatter and more stilted than he means it to be. He takes a half step forward and is a little surprised Epsilon doesn’t take one back. “But what happened after that? I’m still unconscious, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, you’re still out. You can wake up whenever you want not, but I uh… I’d say stay out a little bit more. At least until I make sure you’re not gonna start bleeding out again.” 

It’s a bit reassuring that Epsilon isn’t keeping him unconscious. Wash isn’t sure what he would do if that were the case. Probably scream and make things very unpleasant for everyone. “But what happened with the temple? Did Carolina get away?”

“Yeah… yeah she did.” Epsilon’s not looking at him for some reason. “Had to drag you out of there. But… she had some help?”

Wash blinks at him for a second then his eyes go wide and there’s a tiny spark of something in his chest that he’s not going to assign a name to. “Locus? He helped her?”

“Ayup. He wasn’t into Price and Felix using you as a battery or whatever the fuck they were doing. I don’t know how this alien bullshit works. You should’ve seen him deck Price. That was awesome.”

“I’m sorry I missed that,” Wash says, earnestly. Having been on the receiving end of Locus’ punches a few times, trying to picture Price taking one is immensely satisfying. 

“Wish you had a helmet on, would’ve recorded it for later.” Epsilon’s grinning and all at once, Wash can’t stand it. 

This is too familiar. Too easy. He can feel the places where Epsilon fits, where he’s always been meant to slot into place. The places where they should be touching, should be linking together like cogs in a machine. But there’s distance there. The slightest hovering pause, like Epsilon is waiting to be given the go ahead to make them whole. And they both know Wash never will. 

He gives himself a little shake and wonders if Epsilon can feel it. 

“So they didn’t activate the temple? I thought they said there was a backup plan?”

Epsilon makes a face and shifts on the spot. He’s out of armor, dressed in clothes that look like they could’ve been Tucker’s before some of the color was sucked out of them. It makes him seem strangely vulnerable, out of place in the crash site. Maybe that’s fitting given he was hardly really there with the rest of them. 

“Yeah… yeah there was. They had uh--”

“Just tell me, Epsilon.” The wait is worse than knowing. 

“They had Doc, Wash.”

Nevermind. Knowing is worse. So much worse. God. 

How long have they had him? How long has Doc been gone? Fuck, he doesn’t even remember. He had never thought to question it when Doc disappeared. He… he had been almost glad and Wash wants to rip out the parts of him that ever felt relieved when Doc hadn’t been taken with them to the Feds’ base. It had been easier not having him there, not having someone who knew they were connected. 

He wasn’t ready for that then. It was terrifying. When Doc and Donut had shown up, it had thrown him off balance and it had been so much easier to just… not think about it. Not think about him. About the damn purple mark on his arm. 

His hand drifts there and presses down. He’s not him now. In his head, whatever he is isn’t real, so it doesn’t matter if the mark’s there or not. That doesn’t mean shit about what’s happened outside. 

“He’s not dead,” Epsilon says quickly. 

Wash knows he doesn’t have to try to read his mind when he’s in it. Epsilon had told him once, back when they were together, when they still fit each other without all the broken, jagged edges that Wash’s thoughts were impossible not to hear. 

_ You think so loud, dude _ , he had said.  _ It’s like you’re just doing that high pitch screaming thing all the time in here. _

But Wash has never thought of it as screaming, not in here, it’s more like he writes it on the walls of his brain. If someone’s inside, they can see every bit of it without even trying. 

He grits his teeth. “What happened?”

“They broke him.” It’s too simple to imply half the horrible things that it does.

“How?”

Epsilon looks pained, shifting on the spot. “It’s… Wash, you don’t wanna--”

“I need to know. Just tell me!” He doesn’t mean to snap, but he doesn’t take it back. 

At least Epsilon doesn’t recoil. He just sighs and rubs at his arms. “They had already been working on him for a while. Got him all wound up so they could just… push a little harder to get him to break. I couldn’t really focus on what Price and Felix were saying to him after they had him hauled in. But it didn’t take long.”

Every word makes the sentence on Wash’s shoulders heavier. His fault. His fault. His. He should’ve looked. Should’ve tried. Should have fucking thought to  _ look _ . 

But he didn’t. 

So he shoves down the guilt for the moment, swallowing it like a pill without water. “Then what? Did it work?”

“Yeah, I think so. Everything started getting all glowy and shit. Locus moved while they were distracted and knocked out Felix. He got Carolina up and they grabbed you and Doc and made a run for it.”

“They didn’t try to shut off the temple?”

Epsilon shakes his head. “Carolina tried, but she couldn’t break it and there wasn’t time to try anything. Now that I think about it, breaking shit probably would’ve made things even worse.”

Wash drags his hands through his hair and starts pacing. Just breathe. He has to breathe and think. 

“What did the temple do?”

“No fucking clue. Nothing good.” The defeated tone in Epsilon’s voice pulls Wash’s attention over. He looks as miserable as Wash feels. A wet, pained smile slips onto his face. “At least it wasn’t our fault.”

Wash can’t believe him. “That’s what you’re focusing on here?”

“Hey, I’ll take any kind of bright side I can get!” Epsilon snaps back at him. “I didn’t break your brain again, I’m calling that a win.”

Wash wants to scream, wants to fight, scream that that’s not the point. But somehow Epsilon looks even more wretched now. He remembers before, right before Epsilon had jumped into his head. _I’m sorry._

Slowly, Wash takes a step toward him. “You were afraid you would, weren’t you? That you’d… break me again?”

“No shit, Wash.” But there’s no venom to Epsilon’s voice. He just sounds tired and pained. Like he wants to be done. But he doesn’t stop. “That was their whole big master plan. Price knew if I went back in your head, I’d fuck you up. He… he knows what happened last time. When… when I…”

When he tried to kill himself. When he tried to tear himself apart and took Wash along with him. When Epsilon decided if he couldn’t have him, no one could. 

Epsilon looks so different now than he did then. Wash is pretty sure he could say the same for himself now. 

That’s probably why he’s able to take another step closer, then another. “Epsilon,” he says as he reaches out, hands hesitating before they settle on Epsilon’s shoulders. He doesn’t feel quite substantial. Almost like a ghost, half there, half gone. 

“Don’t say it’s okay,” Epsilon says suddenly. “Don’t say what I did is fucking okay. It’s not and you don’t mean it.”

He’s right. It’s never going to be okay. Not really. But… they both know that. They accept it. Maybe that means they can finally start moving past it.

“I won’t.” For some reason that makes Epsilon’s shoulders slump with relief under Wash’s hands. He feels a bit more there now. Like he’s not about to flicker away. 

Wash risks a glance up. The crack is still there. But it’s almost sealed now, just the thin line of a scar running through the sky. If he closes his eyes and feels around a bit, he knows his memories are where they’re supposed to be for the most part. There’s some that he has to resort now and then and a few that slipped through that crack long ago and never came back. 

Beyond that though, past the scar in the sky, he wonders what Epsilon’s mind looks like. 

“I don’t forgive you,” he says slowly, and Epsilon tenses for a moment. “I don’t think I could if I wanted to.”

“And you don’t really want to, huh?” Epsilon somehow makes it sound almost casual, but when Wash looks at him, there’s anxiety etched into too green eyes.

Wash lets the corner of his mouth turn up into a little smirk. “No, not really. But I don’t hate you for it anymore.”

Epsilon lets out a soft curse and ducks his head. Can AI cry? Wash decides against asking. Epsilon can probably do whatever he wants in here. Everything’s only half real anyway. 

“Thanks. I guess. I uh… I don’t hate you either.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “Did you ever?”

“Yeah, for a while. For leaving me, and then the replacing me bullshit.”

“Oh.” Wash doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s thought about it, the time when he thought Epsilon was deleted and gone. How he had never even looked to be sure. There’s never been as much guilt over that as there should’ve been. Too much bitterness in the way. 

“In my defense, I was pretty sure you were dead for a while there.”

Epsilon bobs his head in a slight nod. He opens and shuts his mouth a few times, brow furrowing. “I… I thought you were too. Sorta thought it was my fault.”

“Epsilon--”

“Don’t.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

Epsilon scoffs at him and rolls his eyes. “Uh yeah, I kinda do. I’m in your head, I know everything you know.”

“Well maybe I didn’t know what I was going to say.” Which isn’t too far off. Wash’s never known what to say to Epsilon. About anything. And then he just wings it, which always seems to make things worse. 

But here, now… it feels like it’s safe to try. 

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” he says slowly. “Everything that came after. How I ended up. That’s not--I know you never meant for it to happen.”

He sees the protest on Epsilon’s face before it fades. Hands slowly curl around Wash’s wrists, and Epsilon shifts a little closer. “I didn’t… I never knew how bad it was in here.”

Epsilon glances around them and Wash follows his gaze. It still looks like the crash site, but there’s cracks in the world. They’re slim, almost healed over in places, but in others, they’re still bleeding. His head is a mess, it probably always will be, but he can sort through it now. The memories that aren’t his are carefully filed away. Mostly. There’s some that had bled into his own, blurred the line so much that he can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. 

It’s not alright, but there’s enough new memories, enough new feelings that crowd out the aftershocks. And really, it’s about time that he started looking forward. 

“I could try to fix it,” Epsilon offers tentatively, like he already knows the answer.

Wash bites his tongue to keep down the sudden surge of anger. Epsilon’s done more than enough. He’s spent so much time putting himself back together, anything else would be an intrusion. 

Epsilon seems to feel the fury like a pulse through Wash and he takes a step back, but Wash doesn’t let up the grip on his shoulders and shakes his head. “No. I… I’ve managed this long. I don’t want--”

No, that’s not right. He tries again. 

“I don’t need--”

Still not right. Wash sucks in a breath and gentles his hands, letting them move up and down Epsilon’s arms. He remembers this. Epsilon in his head, the strange closeness that came with it. How they could be completely entwined and still find a way to hold each other.

Now the space between them feels miles long. But it’s good. Still closer than they’ve been in years. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he says finally. “It’s not your job to put me back together.”

Epsilon nods slowly, his face unreadable. The corner of his lips quirks into a smirk that’s more sad than anything else. “I guess that’s Tucker’s job now, huh?”

Wash is ready for the words, but not the jealousy that comes with them. His brows knit together and Epsilon looks away. For a second, he wants to argue, but… Epsilon isn’t wrong. Not exactly. “Not just Tucker. All of them. They’ve been helping me.”

“Good.” Epsilon bites out the word and then winces at himself. “I mean… fuck. I’m glad you’re better now. Just…”

There’s a long hanging in the nothing that comes after that. “Just what?”

Epsilon says nothing for a few long moments before he shifts a little closer. His hands slowly move to curl into the front of Wash’s shirt, clutching at him. “I was supposed to… it should’ve been me. I broke you, I wanted to be the one to--it was supposed to be you and me, Wash.”

And all of a sudden, there’s a small part of Wash that wishes it was. The part that’s always missed Epsilon, missed having another voice in his head, another mind that knew him better than he knew himself. And it aches. 

Because they can never have that again. 

“I know,” he says slowly, hands moving to curl around Epsilon’s back. It’s the closest he can let himself hold him. And closer and he can feel those walls trembling. If he let him in, tried to smooth over those jagged pieces it would all come tumbling down. 

This close, he can feel Epsilon trembling too. He’s holding Wash’s shirt like a lifeline, but pressing no closer. He can’t. This is all they can have now. 

And he knows in an instant that Epsilon hates it. 

Jaw clenched, Epsilon shakes his head. “Goddamn it, we’re supposed to be partners. You promised…”

“So did you.” Wash doesn’t keep the bitterness from his voice, but there’s too many other things bleeding into it for that to stand on its own. 

Epsilon looks at him and his eyes are burning. “You were  _ mine _ , Wash.”

And he gets it. He didn’t just replace Epsilon for the Reds and Blues, he filled the hole Epsilon left in his heart with them too. 

He shakes his head a little and grips Epsilon tighter. “I can’t be that person anymore--I’m not--”

“I know that!” Epsilon snaps and then blanches, looking pained for a second. His face is closer now, Wash can see faint lines at the corners of his eyes. “I… I’m not asking you to be. But I get to fucking miss what we had. I get to miss you.”

There’s a lump in Wash’s throat and Epsilon’s eyes widen as he catches up with his own words. For a second, he thinks Epsilon might pull away and deny it all, pretend he doesn't care like he has been for months. It’s what they’ve both been doing, putting up that wall, not letting the feelings rise to the surface. 

But in here there’s no hiding from them, no running and shoving them down. Because he can feel it rolling off Epsilon. In here he’s raw, exposed. It’s all too much, sparks coming off both of them and he knows what’s going to happen for a second before it does. 

Epsilon leans forward and it’s not a real kiss. It’s all in his head, it can’t be. But that doesn’t change what it feels like. 

Wash doesn’t know what to do with it, so he closes his eyes even though it doesn’t matter. It’s not like kissing Tucker--it’s not like kissing anyone. Epsilon feels like static buzzing against him and around him. He’s everywhere even as the world shrinks down to the one, single point of contact and makes everything else black out. 

And then it brightens. 

It’s not memories, not exactly. Just feelings. So many, tripping over one another to get noticed first. There’s loss and guilt and anger so strong, the back of his head burns. But those fade, loneliness overwhelming everything. Regret creeps in like a spider, weaving a web that tugs despair ever closer until it’s a thick blanket that makes it hard to breathe. 

That too eases. His eyes are shut, but it feels like there’s a bright light beyond them. Loss is accepted then violently shoved aside. Epsilon’s feelings seep into his own: the anger at being replaced, furious irritation at not even being missed, but under it all, creeping jealousy, enough to turn him radioactive green. 

That was his team and Wash took them. Wash was his and the Reds and Blues covered him in their own colors leaving no room for Epsilon’s barely visible shade of blue. They’ve marked each other up, touched in ways Epsilon never can. It’s not fair not fair not fair and he burns with it. 

But the storm starts to calm. It feels like years pass in an instance. Time moves so differently for AI. The jealousy isn’t gone, but it fades, the heat easing away. In its place is worry, longing, and something… something warm and wonderful that Wash can’t let himself look at directly. Can’t name. 

And then the kiss breaks and all that’s left is a tangled web of feeling. It hurts and soothes in the same instant and he’s dizzy when Epsilon pulls back. 

Epsilon’s hands leave his shirt and move to cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as his chest rises and falls with heavy, uneven breaths. There’s a strange prickling sensation on the back of his neck and a pang somewhere in his chest. Too many feelings, at least he knows they’re all his. Close as he is, the reach of Epsilon’s mind has retracted, put up a few walls of his own to stop anything else bleeding out. 

“You could’ve told me,” he says, when he manages to find his voice. 

That startles a laugh out of Epsilon, who looks at him like he just sprouted a few extra heads. “Right, you want me to try and figure out how to put all… that shit into words. Seriously?”

“You could have tried at least.” But Wash knows his lips are curling into something between a smirk and a smile. “Don’t you have bits of Delta in there? Couldn’t he have written up something nice and logical?”

Epsilon snorts and cocks an eyebrow at him. “You want me to have Delta try and write you an essay about my feelings?”

“You think he wouldn’t be up for it?” Wash shrugs. “It would’ve been good for a few laughs.”

“Yeah, cause I’m gonna give you that kind of ammo to laugh at me about. No fucking thanks.” Epsilon looks like he wants to pull away, but he doesn’t. 

The distance between them is still there, despite the hands on his face. Their chests don’t touch, feet several inches apart. The kiss had been bridging that gap, but not filling it in. 

Wash looks at him for a moment before he sighs. Now he knows, but what the hell does he do with all of that? He’s coming up blank, so he asks. “What does this mean, Epsilon?”

Epsilon shrugs. “No fucking clue. I just… I needed you to know.”

Wash nods slowly. That much at least makes sense. It’s an offering of the knowledge without strings attached. He can accept it. That doesn’t mean he has to do anything with it, but the option is there, stamped with a question mark he doesn’t need to worry about just now. 

Later maybe. Once he can figure what the hell his own emotions did, are still doing in response. It sort of feels like they’re on fire. Not a bit fire, just one raging somewhere in the distance, a natural one that will put itself out eventually. Probably. He knows at least that if he tries to touch it on his own now, he’ll just get burned. 

Giving himself a little shake, Wash pulls his thoughts out of that before the metaphor can get too literal and set the world around them on fire. 

“Alright,” he says, finally focusing on Epsilon. “I… thanks. For letting me know.”

“Yeah.”

The silence settles thickly between them and it’s a little awkward. Somehow, that makes Wash feel a bit more steady. Not even a strange brain transfer of feelings can make them figure out how they should be around each other now. Maybe that’s what makes it awkward, but not uncomfortable. 

Wash still has a hard time looking at him, so he glances around, brow furrowing. Everything looks just the same as he did before. Weird. It seems like it should be changing, or at least growing a little less solid around the edges. 

“What’s up?” There’s concern on the parts of Epsilon’s face that Wash lets himself look at. 

“Nothing, just…” He frowns, glancing up at the sky. It looks the same as ever. “It seems like I should be waking up now.”

“Oh… well, yeah, I guess you could. Lemme just check some shit real quick.” Epsilon’s hands drop away from him and his face goes strangely blank. Wash is pretty sure that it he looked directly into his eyes, he’d see lines of numbers and code running through them. After a second, Epsilon comes back to himself, shaking his head a little. “You still need the healing unit, so I’ve gotta stay in here, but if you wanna wake up, I’m not stopping you.”

“Alright then.” 

Wash shuts his eyes for a second. They’re still at the crash site when he opens them and he frowns. His eyes flick down to his hands and he flexes his fingers. The more aware he is that this is all in his head, the less real it feels. His hands look look solid, but there’s no feeling when he presses them together. Still not awake. 

He glances at Epsilon, cocking an eyebrow. “How exactly do I…?”

Epsilon shrugs. “Fuck if I know, dude. Seems like you should just… y’know, wake up.”

It certainly seems like it should be that way. But there he is. Still in his head. Still out. Looking around again, he frowns. His eyes land on the caves and stick there. The last time he was here, really here, those were closed off, filled with fallen rocks. 

But now they’re wide open, almost inviting. 

“Maybe I have to leave?” Leave to go where, he doesn’t know. His dreams have always moved him without much of his own input, which is half the reason they turned so easily into nightmares, dragging him through memories he didn’t know and the worst of the ones he did. 

Now though, he has no idea what might be in those caves, but it seems like the only place to go. He’s never been into those caves. His brain shouldn’t know what’s in there. But it’s almost like there’s something there, like a magnet trying to pull him in. 

The last thing he remembers about this cave is seeing Tucker disappear into it. 

And then he squints, because… he’s sure that just for a second, there’s a faint glint of aqua in the darkness of the cave, like the tiniest bit of light catching Tucker’s armor. It’s surprising, but it shouldn’t be. It’s weird how easy it is to forget this is all still happening in his head. 

“I guess I’ll just…” Trailing off, he glances at Epsilon. It doesn’t seem quite right to just leave him there. But then Epsilon shakes his head. 

Right. That’s probably not how this works. Wash is just going to stop trying to understand this part of his brain. It clearly knows what it’s doing and if he pokes at it too much, it might stop working and just drop the ground out from under him. That sure sounds like something his own mind would do to him at least. 

“I’ll see you on the other side, or whatever,” Epsilon says. He lifts his hand in an awkward jerking wave and goes fuzzy around the edges, slowly pixelating until he dissolves out of the world. Wash feels a sharp spike of anxiety before he takes a breath and feels out his head, bumping up against the edges of Epsilon. Still there. 

After all this time, it’s amazing that that’s comforting again. 

Wash takes a breath as he glances around at the place once more before heading into the cave. The darkness is warm and inviting as he moves deeper in. There’s that glint of aqua again and again and he follows it back to the surface. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter got pretty surreal. I'm sorry if there's bits that don't make sense. Thank you for all the kudos and comments! As I'm posting this, I'm also getting ready for nanowrimo, which starts in a couple days. I'm going to do my best to keep up with my weekly update schedule for this fic, I have about 15k written from this point, so there's a bit of a buffer. However, if I need to take a week off, I'll make sure to post about it on tumblr! I just want to say thank you so much to everyone for all the support this story is getting, it really means the world to me and I hope you guys like what I've got planned next!


	32. The Pieces of the Mess You Made

It’s not Tucker’s armor that he sees when he first opens his eyes, but Carolina. That’s still just as comforting. 

Things come into focus slowly. She’s sitting near him, but not looking at him. Her helmet’s off, his own next to it. Where the hell did they get that? Yeah… yeah no, the world is still too fuzzy for him to put his thoughts in a line about that one. 

Carolina’s talking to a flickering Epsilon hovering above the helmets. They look busy, so he glances around. Where the hell are they? It looks like they’re in some kind of building. The walls seem mostly intact, though he can’t see a whole lot of them from his shadowy spot in the corner. It’s very dark. Probably thanks to the boarded up windows that only let in a tiny hint of natural light from outside. 

There’s a light on the ceiling that looks like it’s been broken for ages. The whole room smells a bit musty and he’s pretty sure those are cobwebs in the far corner. It’s a pretty small place. A little shifting tells him he’s on an ancient mattress, a few of the springs doing their best to make themselves known even through his kevlar suit. 

“Wash, hey, sit still,” Carolina says, suddenly leaning into view. The dark circles under his eyes are bigger than he’s ever seen them. There’s a shuffling sound and then a thunk, probably of her gauntlet hitting the floor because then her bare hand presses to his cheek and her shoulders sag in relief. 

“Fucking told you he didn’t have a fever.” Epsilon sounds a little huffy, but he can feel a little tension drift away from where the AI still lurks in his head. It’s weird, feeling him there but not fully. Epsilon’s keeping them from entwining completely.

Good. He wants his thoughts to himself for a bit. 

“What’s the situation, boss?” he asks, voice weaker than he wants it to be, a little rough for disuse. Fuck, how long has he been out? 

Carolina cocks an eyebrow at him and then glances at Epsilon, who chooses that moment to flicker out completely. Huh. Wash vaguely wonders what that’s about. He had always thought the two of them got along better than he and Epsilon ever did. 

“Trouble in paradise?” he asks before he can think better of it, grinning innocently up at Carolina when she glares at him. There’s a little spark of irritation from Epsilon in his head that makes him wince. Tough room. Tucker would’ve laughed at that. Hell, he probably would’ve made the joke ten seconds before Wash thought of it.

God, he misses him. 

“Nothing you need to worry about.” Carolina lets out a breath and looks away from him for a moment. There’s something a little gentler in her eyes when she looks back and her hand is soft and cool when it brushes the hair back from his forehead. That’s probably greasy and gross. She must’ve been really worried. “I’m glad you’re up, maybe we can finally start getting shit done now.”

“What’ve I missed?” Her expression darkens a little and he almost regrets the question. 

“How much has Epsilon already told you?”

Enough. Too much. Doc. 

Wash’s stomach lurches unpleasantly and he wants to throw himself out of bed. He glances around the room. It’s just them. Oh god, is he--

“Doc’s fine,” Epsilon says, suddenly reappearing, his voice filtering through the helmet speakers. “Calm down before you give yourself a fucking heart attack.”

Wash glances at Carolina, raising a questioning eyebrow. Her lips press to a thin line. “I don’t know if I would call him fine, but he’s alive. He’s in the other room, probably sleeping. I… don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see him yet.”

What the hell does that mean? His brow furrows and anxiety twists his gut. “Why not?”

Carolina blows a slow breath out her nose before she looks at him, and it hits then just how exhausted she looks. “They broke him, Wash.”

He nods faintly. Right, he knew that. That still doesn’t make hearing it again easier. “Epsilon told me. How bad is he?”

“I honestly don’t know.” She rubs at her hands and shoots a glance at the door. Maybe Doc’s on the other side. “I barely ever met him before this, so I have no idea what he’s usually like. He’s not… all there. There’s moments when he understands what I’m saying, but whatever they’ve been doing to him… I’ll be honest, I don’t know if there’s a way to fix it.”

A heavy stone sinks into Wash’s gut. This is his fault. He never even thought to look for Doc. Didn’t spare him a second’s thought once they left the crash site. Damn it damn it damn it. 

_ You didn’t know.  _

Epsilon’s platitude just makes want to punch something, but he can’t very well drive his fist into a hologram. His limbs still feel heavy and useless in any case. All he can do is curl his hands into fists until his nails bite into the meat of his palms. 

“I want to see him,” Wash says, pushing himself up on his elbows. But Carolina’s got a hand on his shoulder in less than a second to press him back down. 

“You’re not going anywhere until Epsilon gives the all clear. The healing unit isn’t a miracle cure, Wash. If you strain yourself now, you could reopen your wounds and bleed out before Epsilon can do a thing about it.” Her stern look gets him to sink back against the bed. 

He knows better than to push. If she really wants him staying put, Wash is pretty sure she’s not above tying him to the bed. 

Letting out a breath, he glares daggers into the ceiling. “How long have I been out already?”

“Wash--”

“How long?” Knowing won’t change anything, but he has to figure out how much he’s missed. There’s something else weighing on her. Epsilon never told him just what the tower did. How long has it been activated? How much damage has already been done?

“Four days.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, jaw clenching. “Epsilon told me… about the tower. What did it do?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. That’s about half an answer right there. He can see Carolina’s hands drop to the edge of the mattress and curl into it tightly. “It’s mind control. Everyone on Chorus except the people who were in the temple when it activated are under its control now.”

Wash lets the words sink in slowly. There’s not much that can top the dread that’s already settled heavy on his chest, but that might just do it. 

“Everyone?” He doesn’t mean to ask it, for it to come out so soft. Even the Reds and Blues?

Carolina seems to understand, her head dipping, eyes fixed on the ground. Her voice is very carefully even when she speaks next. “As far as we know, yes. There was… They almost lured us into a trap two days after the temple. I tore out our radios so they can’t try to get in contact with us again.”

Dozens of terrible images flicker into his head. Who set the trap? Was anyone hurt? Did… did they make Carolina fight the Reds and Blues? What are they making them doing?

But the question he asks is: “We?”

Carolina’s jaw twitches as she nods. “Locus has been… helpful. I don’t know if I would’ve made it out of the temple with you and Doc if he hadn’t turned on Felix when he did.”

There’s a touch of bitterness there that Wash can’t help feeling an echo of. If Locus had acted sooner, changed his mind faster… maybe they wouldn’t be here now, wouldn’t have an entire planet out of reach and turned against them. 

“Where is he now?”

“Out searching for supplies. He should be back in a few hours.” She looks toward him, frowning. “He’ll probably want to see you when he gets back…”

Carolina leaves that hanging open for him, but he almost wishes there was a flat out question there, asking him what he wants to do. Because maybe then he would have a starting point to figure that out himself. He takes a breath and drags a hand over his face, pressing himself back into the mattress more firmly, maybe it’ll swallow him whole. 

“I should’ve figured out their plans,” he says softly.

“Stop it.” 

“That was the whole point--”

“Wash, knock it off,” she says sharply, cutting him off before he can get much further. Carolina’s hand comes down on his shoulder and squeezes. “None of it matters now. Blame yourself after we stop them.”

She doesn’t tell him it’s not his fault. Probably because Carolina knows better than most that she won’t be able to convince him of that no matter how hard she tries. In a weird way, he kind of appreciates it. And she’s right. There will be time for looking back later. For now… for now he’s still exhausted. 

Carolina must notice his eyes drooping, because she gives his shoulder a little shake before grabbing at something on the floor. She shoves a water bottle in his face and drops a ration bar onto his chest before she rises. “I want that bottle empty and the bar gone before you pass out again. I’ve gotta go check on Doc. If you try to get up, Epsilon has my permission to knock you out cold.”

There’s a little pulse from the back of his neck, but Wash is pretty sure Epsilon won’t actually do it. But probably better not to risk it, so he just sighs and pushes himself up a little and takes the water bottle. “Yes boss.”

She nods and leaves, apparently trusting him enough to actually listen to her. The door doesn’t close behind her, something he’s infinitely grateful for. Wash leans against the wall and takes a long drink, only realizing how thirsty he is once he starts and has a hard time putting the bottle back down. He scrubs his hands over his face before glancing toward the helmet again. Where the hell did…

“Locus went back for your shit after we left.” Epsilon flickers into being. It’s weird seeing him like this, still feeling the hum of him in his head. Better to just… not think about it too much. Things are better there. Not fixed. Never fixed. Alright as long as he doesn’t poke too much. 

“Do they know how bad it is?” 

Epsilon shakes his head. “Nah. Carolina did a little recon, but neither of them wanted to leave you or Doc for long.”

“Did she see…” Wash trails off and shoves the ration bar into his mouth. He doesn’t want the answer to that question. But he does. There’s too much worry twisting up his guts. His chest aches and he can’t tell if that’s just in his head or the still healing injuries. 

“I dunno,” Epsilon says slowly. The buzzing in Wash’s head feels as worried as Wash is, concern spilling through here and there where the walls aren’t quite strong enough to keep it all filtered out. “I figure… I don’t think Felix would just kill the guys.”

“Not if they’re useful,” Wash says darkly. If Felix thinks he can use them as leverage, he’ll keep them alive. If they’re under his control though… and he doesn’t have Locus to rein him in anymore--

He lets his head fall back against the wall and shuts his eyes tightly. Stop it. Thinking about all the worst scenarios won’t stop them happening. Don’t picture Felix ordering Caboose around, making him fight other helpless, mindless people. Don’t think about him making Sarge take Simmons apart for scraps. Don’t think about Felix and Tucker… 

His mouth tastes like bile and he can’t get anymore of the ration bar down. There’s a lump in his throat that wants to choke him and he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

Deep breath. Count to ten. 

Wash isn’t sure if that’s Epsilon in his head or his own thoughts coaching him, but he does his best to listen, breathing deep and even, trying to force his mind blank. Laying back on the bed, he throws an arm over his eyes. He sleeps and doesn’t dream, which is almost certainly Epsilon’s doing. 

But for once, Wash can’t bring himself to mind. 

* * *

“... still bad?”

“He may be improving. It’s difficult to say. He was not it… the best shape when we first found him.”

“Right. Sure he wasn’t.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

The low voices slowly rise, pulling Wash out of a heavy, nothing filled sleep. It sounds like they’re half trying to be quiet, drifting in from the half open door. A few blinks and he finds himself in the same spot he fell asleep. As dingy as the room is, the dust and grime is still a million times better than his cell. 

A bit more light flits in around the boards on the window, getting in his eyes as he pushes himself up. God what time is it?

There’s a buzz in his head from Epsilon, reminding him that he has a clock in his head now, in addition to a thermometer, a calculator, and apparently several playlists of assorted music. His head aches. He didn’t miss that feeling of there just being so much stuff crammed into his brain. That took some getting used to the first time around, and he has no intention of doing it again. 

_ Hey, I’m only in here saving your life, jackass. _

“Get out of my thoughts, Epsilon. I thought you could block that out?” Wash scrubs a hand over his face. 

_ I mean, I could. But you just think so damn loud sometimes. It’s not like I wanna hear you thinking shit about me.  _

Wash is actually fairly sure that he does. 

_ Oh fuck you, dude. Fine, whatever, I’ll just put in some ear plugs and hum elevator music to myself. Will that make you stop bitching.  _

“Maybe. Do you even have ears?”

_ What’s that? Can’t hear you over this smooth fucking jazz. _

Wash rolls his eyes, but there is a faint static feeling in his head as Epsilon throws up another wall between them. Fine. Good. Just what he wanted. 

There’s still ‘trying to be quiet, but not doing a very good job of it’ arguing happening in the hallway. So Wash pushes himself to his feet, taking a second to get his balance and make sure that Epsilon doesn’t suddenly object and send him back down. There’s no protest in his head, so Wash assumes he’s good to walk around at least a little. With how long Epsilon’s been running the healing unit, he’s probably not about to start bleeding out again as easily as Carolina thinks. 

He pats at his chest, as if to check. It’s a little hard to get a good look without pulling down the kevlar suit, which still has a few blood stains here and there. It looks as though someone tried t fix the cuts in the suit with a combination of stitches, staples, and duct tape. Wash just… isn’t going to ask about that. Maybe he doesn’t want to see what he looks like under it. 

As long as they didn’t let Doc patch him up… and there’s the rush of guilt that comes with that little joke to himself that makes it so not worth it. 

Trudging over, he pushes the door the rest of the way open and leans against the doorframe, more than a little irritated by the sheer amount of effort it took him to cross a fucking room. The voices stop instantly and Carolina and Locus both turn toward him. Neither looks remotely surprised to see him there, but Carolina frowns at him, disapproval written all over her face. 

“I told you to stay put, Wash.”

“That was yesterday. I’m fine now.”

“It was six hours ago.”

“Oh.” For some reason it feels like longer. Maybe he should’ve let Epsilon tell him the time. His internal clock has been tipped on its side and smashed a few times with a sledgehammer. “I’m fine Carolina. If I start bleeding, I’m sure Epsilon will do what he needs to.”

There’s a faint buzz in the back of his head that feels like a confirmation. 

Wash glances between the two of them, eyes lingering on Locus for a moment. He looks even more worn down than Carolina, though there’s something strangely bright about his eyes. His armor is half off for some reason and he’s leaning against the wall, not quite putting weight on his left side. Frowning, Wash opens his mouth to ask, then shuts it again. There’s something he doesn’t want to call concern nagging at him. 

He can ask later. He’s been out too long. “I’ve had enough rest. I want to know what’s happening.”

Carolina blows out a breath and glances at Locus. “Alright. I suppose now’s as good as time as any to start talking battle plans.”

She brushes past Wash, lightly patting at his shoulder as she heads back into the room. For a moment, Wash hesitates, waiting for Locus to move first. He notices then that Locus isn’t looking at him. Won’t look at him. There’s not even the quickest of glances as Locus follows Carolina, careful not to so much as bump him. 

Huh. Well, Wash isn’t about to complain about having his personal space back to himself, but it doesn’t make much sense as far as he can tell. Locus has taken every chance to get close to him. Why stop now once they’re… sort of on the same side. Maybe. That’s another thing that needs some clearing up. 

Carolina ends up sitting on the bed and Locus sinks down against the opposite wall. Wash just paces. He’s been off his feet for too long, and though his muscles protest the very idea, he needs to get them working again. 

“Alright, I still don’t know what Price’s plan is, or who any of you work for,” Wash says, getting his thoughts together as he glances at Locus. “And I’d really like to figure out just who is responsible for… whatever Felix and Price are doing to my friends.”

He doesn’t want to think about the details. About every little torturous possibility. The images are doing their best to creep into his head, but he has to shut it down or he won’t focus on anything else. 

Locus tips his head up a little, but still doesn’t look at him. His jaw is tight, hands twitching in his lap as he lets out a breath. “We work for Control.”

Wash glances at Carolina, one eyebrow rising. She’s gritting her teeth, looking like she wants to make good use of the pistol at her him. 

“And who the hell is control?” She bites out the words. 

“The UNSC.”

Wash feels the temperature of the room drop and suddenly his legs don’t want to work. He staggers over to the wall next to his bed, leaning against it as Epsilon buzzes about in his head, muttering about pulse spikings and anxiety levels and how Wash needs to calm the fuck down. 

“The UNSC is doing this?” His voice is weaker than he means it to be. 

Locus nods slowly, rubbing at his jaw. “Yes. Not all of the UNSC, Control is… a splinter. A small group of officials who were unhappy with the way the war was brought to an end. I believe the UNSC as a whole would find their actions damnable, but as long as Control stays below the radar and pays their dues, the greater part is willing to look the other way.”

Slowly, Wash nods. Alright. They aren’t at war with the entire UNSC. That’s good. Better. Sort of. Breathe and focus. 

“What are they after?” Carolina gets a grip on things before Wash does, her eyes bright and alert. Wash knows that look. It’s easier to fight when you know who your enemy is. 

Locus shifts, eyes on the floor, apparently not a fan of the intense attention they’re both directing at him. “Chorus is… the planet was initially picked for colonization based on Control’s speculation that there were valuable resources here. This was before the end of the war. Things were drawing to a close, and Control, much like Freelancer, was looking for a trump card. It was their belief that using the alien’s own forgotten weapons against them could bring them down.”

“But then the war ended?” Wash finds Locus’ eyes, or he tries to, and gets a nod. Frowning, Wash runs a hand through his hair. “So Chorus was useless to the UNSC… I guess that explains why the UNSC stopped caring about this place.”

Locus nods again. “After the end of the war, Control was furious with the treaties that had been arranged. They believed that humans should have completely annihilated the aliens. These views were… unpopular, to say the least. So they kept quiet, operating in secret to reclaim assets like Chorus.”

“Why?” Wash crosses his arms across his chest, tipping his head back against the wall. “What’s the endgame here?”

“I’m uncertain. Control only told us what we needed to know to complete our assignment. I believe they wanted to take the weapons and resources here so they could stage a takeover of the UNSC, or orchestrate some staged conflict to reignite the war. But this is just speculation,” he says, brow furrowing.

Wash takes a moment to absorb that and realizes one, crystallizing thing: he doesn’t care. Control, the war, the aliens, it’s all too distant. Too big. His ability to give a shit has grown, but only to the size of one planet. In the back of his mind, he knows that if Locus is right, if that’s Control’s plan and they succeed, sooner or later, he might be forced to care. 

But for now, that’s too much, too many faces not enough names. He wants to care, wishes he did, but he can’t. Not now. Not when there’s too many people he knows, loves, who need him right fucking now. 

“So what are they doing with the mind control?” Wash does his best not to sound too demanding. Judging by the look he gets from Carolina, he doesn’t quite get there. 

Locus shifts on the spot. For the first time, he looks at Wash, the most fleeting of glances before he looks away again. “That was Price’s plan. Initially, Control wanted the planet wiped out, so they could pretend to stumble across the weapons when investigating what had happened and then claim Chorus as a resource to be mined out for all alien technology, under the guise of investigating what led the people to kill each other.”

It makes sense. Wash vaguely remembers the speech Felix had spouted at them ages ago, how someone was interested in Chorus, the technology here. There hasn’t been much time to think about that since. Maybe he should’ve made time. 

“The mind control,” Locus continues, “came about when Price began speaking with Control. He convinced them that an investigation would likely mean that anything found here would be locked away as evidence, out of Control’s reach. But his work studying the ancient alien texts led him to the discovery of the Temple of Mind. He proposed that if the planet was under his control, he could have the leaders sign over ownership of anything found on Chorus to Control, and that they could use the people here to mine their own planet to the bone, free of charge.”

Wash’s mouth tastes like bile and his hands curl into fists at his sides. “So they’re turning everyone here into mindless slaves?”

“Essentially yes.” Locus blows out a breath and rubs at his forehead. “From what I saw when I was running reconnaissance earlier, it looks as though Felix and Price have already begun making preparations for Control’s arrival.”

Blinking, Wash looks at Carolina, finding her turning to meet him, eyes widening. She looks back to Locus, shifting forward on the bed. “Control is coming here?”

Locus nods. “I believe so. Price had made arrangements for the leaders of the group to arrive in person to sign the necessary documents with Doyle and Kimball. I don’t know when they are set to arrive, but my guess is soon.”

“So we have until then to fix this?” Wash looks to Locus expectantly. 

This time, Locus is able to hold his gaze a bit longer as confusion settles over his face. “I… Yes. If there is a way to stop this, their arrival would be the deadline. But we have no way to even gain access to the temple again, not without Price’s key.”

“Is that what that was?” Wash remembers the device Price had used to open the temple. Something about the energy had seemed familiar… though there hadn’t been much time to dwell on that. 

“It is, although…” Locus pauses, brow furrowing for a moment. “He didn’t call it a key. I remember the mission he had me accompany him on to find it. It’s not a true key, those can only be found and wielded by chosen champions. His… I believe he said it was more of a lockpick, an emergency way in should the key be out of reach.”

There’s a tiny spark of hope swelling in Wash’s chest. “So we need the key? Would we be able to turn the temple off using that?”

“I don’t know.” Locus frowns, drumming his fingers on his arm. “Price never mentioned how to reverse the effects.”

“Well, we can worry about that once we get in there,” Carolina says, pushing herself to her feet. “First we need that key. Did Price ever say where it would be?”

“He had his theories, but he never spent much time on them.” Sighing, Locus shakes his head a little. “The keys are apparently temperamental, and notoriously difficult to find when you’re actually looking for them.”

“Did he say what they looked like?” Wash is sure there’s something they’re missing here. A key… why is that so familiar? And that glow, he knows he’s seen it before…

“They have the same energy signature as his lockpick, the same color, but they’re much larger.” Locus rubs at his brow as if trying to remember. “He showed me a picture once. I thought it was a weapon at first. It was two pronged and--”

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ.” Epsilon’s voice jolts Locus to a halt and all eyes go to his hologram as he flickers into being on top of Wash’s helmet in the corner. “Tucker’s fucking sword. That’s the goddamn magic alien key.”

Oh. Duh. Wash is tempted to smack his head into the wall, but settles for pressing a hand to his face. The sword. It’s so obvious. He’s seen Tucker use it dozen’s of times, no wonder he recognized the glow off Price’s lockpick. 

For some reason that makes Locus rise quite suddenly to his feet. He opens his mouth and shuts it a few times before looking to Wash again, eyes intense. “Then we need to move as soon as possible to retrieve him.”

Wash blinks, a creeping concern climbing his veins. “What? Why?”

“Price’s research. He… his findings indicated that key holders would be immune to the effects of the tower unless directly targeted.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Epsilon flickers and projects himself right in front of Locus’ face. “The fuck are you saying? You mean the mind bullshit doesn’t work on Tucker either?”

Oh god. Tucker might be alright. Hope swells in Wash’s chest before he can stop it. But it’s almost immediately crushed. Just Tucker. All alone in a sea of mindless drones with his friend’s faces. It’s something out of a nightmare. And they’ve left him alone for days. 

Locus huffs, narrowing his eyes at the projection. “Key holders are more resistant to the effects of the temples. However, if the people controlling the temple are able to find and isolate them, they can be controlled as well, but it will take a great deal more power to do so.” 

“So what you’re saying is, we have a chance?” Carolina’s already grabbing her helmet from the floor, looking ready to charge into battle. 

“We do,” Locus says, nodding. “But we may not have it for long. It all depends on your friend being able to keep his head down long enough for us to reach him.”

Wash looks to Carolina then Epsilon and bites at the inside of his cheek. Cocky, insolent Tucker keeping his head down? “Yeah, uh… we should get moving. Now probably.”

Carolina nods and jams her helmet on. “Wash, are you good to go?”

“As good as I’m going to be. Where’s the rest of my armor?”

“The other room, I’ll retrieve it.” Locus starts for the door. There’s… some kind of feeling that rises seeing him go, though Wash has no clue what. But it’s enough to make him push off the wall and cross the room to catch Locus’ arm. 

“Hold on a sec.”

Locus goes very still. An awkward moment passes before Carolina edges around them. She pauses in the doorway, looking back at Wash, expression hidden behind her helmet. “I’m just… gonna go get the jeeps ready.”

Wash gives her an awkward nod and she’s gone. Slowly, he lets go of Locus, taking a slight step back. Epsilon has flickered out of view and gone mercifully quiet in his head. “I wanted to talk to you. About the temple, what you did back there.”

Locus slowly turns toward him, avoiding his eyes again as he folds his hands behind his back, still a soldier standing at attention. “Agent Washington--”

“No, I’m talking,” Wash says, holding up a hand to cut him off. Locus stops, blinking at the floor, confusion all over his too easy to read face. “I can’t thank you for what you did. It wasn’t enough. And if I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have intervened, would you?”

Locus says nothing, but he ducks his head, admitting guilt with just the motion. And that leaves Wash on the shakiest kind of ground. He doesn’t want to sympathize. That horrible, sickening understanding creeps up his throat no matter how much he wants to rip it out and trample it. 

He sucks in a breath and drags a hand through his hair. “But it wasn’t nothing. Turning your back on Felix after everything… that can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t.” Locus’ voice is low as he risks a glance at Wash through his eyelashes. He hesitates, perpetual frown growing. “Why are you doing this, Agent Washington? We both know you’re not trying to save my soul.”

“I’m not,” he agrees. “I doubt I could even if I did try. You’re… we aren’t good people, Locus. If anyone’s going to pull you back the other way, it won’t be me… but I think someone could. Maybe. If you let them.”

“What are you trying to say?” Locus’ brow furrows as he finally looks up at him. Down at him actually, the guy’s so damn tall. 

“I guess I’m saying that you have a choice here. There’s no fixing everything you’ve done, but… it you let the right people in, maybe you can work to make it better.”

Locus looks away, gaze drifting to his hands. Wash’s eyes follow. For the first time he notices Locus isn’t wearing his gauntlets, his kevlar undersuit pushed up to his elbows. A familiar gray handprint wraps around one of his forearms. Next to it is a burn. And another. More cover his other arm. It’s hard to tell just how many there are. 

How many there  _ were _ .

“We aren’t as alike as you think, Agent Washington. As I thought. You still have people to pull you back. I thought I had…” He trails off, looking to Wash with burning eyes and he knows exactly what Locus was going to say. 

But he looks away again and shakes his head as he rolls his sleeves down, covering up the mark and the charred remains of those around it. “It doesn’t matter now. You talk as though you expect me to survive this planet. I can assure you, whatever the outcome here, I have no such delusions.”

Wash wants to tell him he’s wrong. But how can he? All those burns… he has to wonder just how many more Locus is hiding. If there’s any that haven’t been seared away, though he’s starting to get an idea about that. And if that’s right, why the hell would Locus listen to him when he still has so many left?

So when Locus heads out the door again, Wash lets him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a little exposition heavy, sorry about that! I promise there's more action coming up soon! Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! I'm continually amazed that people are sticking with this story. I'm not a huge fan of Malcolm Hargrove, so I'm just... not using him as my big bad here. Felix and Price are much more interesting to me as villains, so there's a reason why this is labeled canon divergent! As of now, I should be keeping things on schedule for no delays this month, but again, if I need to postpone a chapter for a bit, I'll make sure to say something on tumblr.


	33. Gone Was Any Trace of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Suicidal behavior, mentions of self harm, references to torture and severe injury, mutilation, blood

Wash is halfway in his armor when he remembers and jerks upright so fast he nearly smacks his head when he stumbles back into a wall. Across the room, Carolina looks toward him, head cocked in a slight question. They’re in a sort of half open garage. Locus is assembling more supplies as Carolina loads of the jeeps. His armor had been left in the corner, and about half of it is still there.

“Doc.” The word rushes out before Wash can think of how to put a sentence together around it. “Before we go--what are we going to do with him? I need to see him. Where is he?”

She hesitates for only a moment before there’s the tiniest slump to her shoulders. “Down the hall, second door on the left.”

Wash leaves half his armor in a pile on the floor, almost kicking it over as he rushes out of the room. He’s in front of the door, out of breath, hand up to knock before he realizes he has no idea what the hell he’s going to say.

What can he even say? What if Doc doesn’t want to see him? Wash could hardly blame him for that. He left Doc, didn’t even think to look for him, didn’t wonder where he went for more than a moment until it was far, far too late.

Or what if he’s been broken so much he doesn’t even recognize him?

Waiting won’t answer his questions, so Wash takes a breath and nods. There’s no reply, but it sounds like someone’s moving around in there. He tests the doorknob tentatively. Unlocked, so he slowly pushes it open, taking a half step inside. “Doc?”

“Why does everyone always call me that? I’m not a doctor.”

Relief rushes over Wash for a moment as he steps further into the room. But then it stops cold and recedes as he gets a good look at Doc. At least… he thinks that Doc. It takes a moment to recognize him.

Doc’s out of armor, in loose sweats. His hair is a tangled mess of knots in the places where it hasn’t been shaved away, the skin there covered in scars and scabs, some that look shockingly fresh. There’s more where that came from trailing all up and down his arms, his hands… the scarred over areas where a few of his fingers used to be. Warm skin has lost its glow and Doc’s eyes are distant and far away. Not eyes. Eye. There’s only one. The other is covered by new bandages. But it doesn’t cover all the scarring around the eye, so much that Wash doesn’t want to know what could possibly be left underneath it.

Wash presses a hand to his mouth and fights down the taste of bile. Oh god. Why didn’t he look? Why didn’t he wonder about Doc?

He let this happen.

Doc looks up at him only briefly before turning his attention to a pile of rocks on the floor that he seems to be very dutifully moving to a smaller pile about a foot away. As Wash steps into the room, he doesn’t look up again, eye following the movement of his own hand carefully. He doesn’t react as Wash moves to kneel in front of him, trying to catch his gaze.

“Doc?”

“Not my name,” Doc says again, the response is automatic, like it’s been programmed in. “But you’ll call me what you want. Everyone does. Always what they want.”

Doc laughs and it’s horrible. It doesn’t sound like him, the laugh it cartoonish almost, the kind a mad scientist would have. Wash does his best not to flinch. He takes a breath. “Alright, then what do you want to be called?”

“Doesn’t matter.” And Doc’s voice is his own again. He looks up, but not at Wash, a little too far to the left. His eye looks unfocused, bloodshot. “He says his name is a secret, don’t tell.”

“He?”

“Omega. O’Malley. Omega.” Doc says it easily and then goes still for a moment before he seizes up, arms locking in against his sides as he shudders and twitches. Oh god. Wash’s heart leaps into his throat on a panicked jump. What’s happening? What’s wrong with him?

Doc’s movements are horrible and jerky and too fast to stop as he reaches up and starts pulling at what’s left of his hair. Wash moves without thinking, grabbing at his wrists, trying to get him to stop as Doc starts babbling, regular voice and that horrible one that isn’t his interrupting and cutting each other off, like he’s having a conversation with himself, but half of it’s in his head.

“Doc stop--O’Malley, please, you’re hurting yourself,” Wash begs, frantic as he pulls Doc’s hands away. It’s easy to restrain him. Even with his own fatigue, he’s stronger than Doc by a long shot. He tries to keep his grip firm but not too tight. Can’t make things any worse. He’s been hurt enough.

“So now you want to touch me?” Doc’s voice has a new clarity to it that hasn’t been there before and Wash looks up from his arms and finds that one eye fixed right on him. “Am I good enough now? Or are you dying again? Or am I dying? I hope I’m dying.”

Something in Wash’s chest cracks. He looks down at his hands, grip loosening. Under one is familiar gray, stretching over Doc’s skin. He hadn’t even thought, hadn’t even noticed. But now that he does, he can’t stop. There’s other marks on Doc’s skin, some in very familiar colors, but all of them have one thing in common: long, jagged scars, new ones, running right down the middle. Felix hasn’t stripped them away, but he’s put his own stamp across each and every one.

“You’re not dying,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. He has to be calm. Stay calm for Doc. Don’t freak out. He doesn’t get to freak out, not when he could have stopped this. “You… do you recognize me?”

Doc leans forward a little and Wash forces himself not to flinch away. He tips his head to one side, then the other, eye flicking over Wash’s face. After a moment, he shakes his head and smiles, something about it horribly broken. “No. Are you here to kill me? Because that would be just great.”

The cheer in his voice is horrible and it knocks the air out of Wash’s lungs. He can’t keep looking at Doc’s face, so he ducks his head, eyes fixed on where he holds Doc’s arms, thumbs gently brushing the inside of his wrists. “I’m not. I’m… I’m so sorry, Doc. I should’ve looked for you. This is my fault…”

“Not my name,” Doc says again, but it’s softer this time, almost gentle. He shifts a little and bumps his head against Wash’s. After a moment, Doc starts humming, soft and tuneless, but he doesn’t pull away.

Wash isn’t sure how long he stays there, but when Carolina knocks at the door, he has to wipe at his eyes before he straightens up and turns toward her. She lingers awkwardly in the doorway. “We’ve gotta get moving, Wash.”

Hesitating, Wash glances down at Doc, who’s gone back to sorting his rocks, still humming quietly to himself. “We can’t leave him.”

Carolina says nothing for a moment before she lets out a breath. “We’ll bring him, but he has to stay back in the jeep, we can’t bring him into the city like this.”

Better than nothing, so Wash nods. It takes a little work to get Doc to his feet and he doesn’t seem to want to put much weight on the left one, so Wash coaxes him into looping an arm over his shoulder so he can help him along.

It doesn’t take long to get packed up. Wash quickly gets the rest of his armor on and, with a little help from Locus, manages to talk Doc into a loose kevlar body suit and a few pieces of chest armor, though for some reason he absolutely refuses a helmet.

“Too many voices already,” he says, in that horrible voice that can’t really be his, before giggling and half collapsing into the back of a jeep.

Wash sighs and runs a hand over his helmet, almost forgetting he’s wearing it for a second. “Alright, then you’re going to have to keep your head down, understand?”

Doc nods, though he doesn’t look at him, too busy poking and picking at the gauntlets they had managed to get him into. Wash wants to do more, to say something more to him, to just… just make this better. But there isn’t time. They have to move. So he climbs in the back beside Doc to watch him, letting Locus and Carolina take the front as they head off toward Armonia.

Time to see just how much damage has been done. Somehow, he doesn’t know how anything can be as bad as the giggling man next to him, but that doesn’t do much for the sinking feeling in his stomach that grows with every mile.

* * *

Dozens of terrible images float through Wash’s head during the two day journey. It’s quiet on their way there. There’s occasional talks about the plan and a brief discussion about picking a place to camp, but other than that, he barely says a word to Locus or Carolina.

Even Doc is quiet. Now and then he babbles a little to himself, but he hushes when Wash tells him.

 _Jesus Christ, when are we gonna get there?_ Well, at least there’s Epsilon. It’s not like he has to worry about keeping his voice down when he’s in Wash’s head. He’s not entirely sure why Epsilon still needs to be in his head, but he’s not pushing it.

Because… alright, maybe he likes having someone he can talk to without having to open his mouth.

Yeah, and I’m a fucking awesome conversationalist.

Well, maybe Wash wouldn’t go that far. But at least he cuts through the worst of the imagined scenarios that pops into Wash’s head, usually about the time when he starts picturing zombie versions of the Reds and Blues closing in on Tucker and they’re still so damn far away.

_Dude, stop it. Tucker’s gonna be fine. You trained him, right? He can take care of himself. The guy’s watched like a million sci-fi movies, he’ll figure out what’s happening and find a place to hide out. He knows you’re not just gonna leave him._

Maybe he does.

_You promised you’d come back for him, didn’t you?_

And okay, Epsilon definitely peaked through Wash’s memories to find that out, which is annoying and a little creepy, but that doesn’t stop the strange rush of comfort that comes with the reminder. He had promised, and he meant it.

They’re going to find him. Wash just hopes they aren’t too late.

Armonia comes into view on the third morning of their drive. They stop several miles out, in an abandoned town. Carolina reluctantly agrees to stay back at the jeep with Doc. For some reason, he doesn’t want to be around Locus, hiding behind Wash whenever he gets to close. Wash almost wishes he had his helmet off so he could direct an appropriately withering stare Locus’ way. That doesn’t seem necessary though, as Locus very quickly moves away, heading toward the edge of cover to examine the way ahead of them.

Wash stays back, sitting in the seat of the jeep so Carolina can set him up with her camo unit. “I don’t like this,” she says, clipping it in place a little harsher than necessary. “You’re still healing.”

“I’ll be fine, Carolina. I just… I need to see what’s happened.”

She puts her hands on her hips, obviously glaring down at him behind her visor. “And you think I don’t?”

Wash ducks his head, wincing. Crap. Alright, he could have phrased that better. “I’m sorry.”

“They’re my family too, Wash.”

“I know.” He takes a breath and straightens up, reaching to grip her shoulders. “I’ll report back everything we see. Epsilon can take video of everything.”

“You better,” she says sternly, but she steps out of the way, letting him pass. “Just go make sure our idiots are okay.”

“I will.” He gives her shoulder one last squeeze before taking off after Locus.

Wash finds him at the edge of the town, crouched behind a crumbling wall. Steps carefully quiet, he moves up next to him, sinking down at Locus’ side. “Any patrols?”

“None. I’ve spotted several security cameras, but no one seems to be walking the walls,” Locus says, still peering through the scope of his rifle. “It could be they don’t think anyone will try to get into the city… or that most of the people have already been cleared out.”

“You think they would’ve done that already?”

“It seems possible. If Felix and Price want some kind of result to show Control, they would want to mobilize people immediately to begin harvesting resources.”

It makes sense, but it isn’t reassuring. For all they know, the Reds and Blues could be long gone from the city, any chance at getting to Tucker already out of their reach. Wash takes a breath. No. They have to try.

“We need to know for sure.”

Locus just nods. “There are fewer cameras toward the west side. If we use the camo units and slip into the cargo gate, we run a lower risk of detection.”

“Agreed. I have the passcodes to get in. And even if those have been changed, Epsilon should be able to get us in. Right?”

“Oh don’t give me that.” Epsilon doesn’t appear, but his voice filters from the speakers on Wash’s helmet. “I built all their security protocols from the ground up, of course I can get us in.”

Wash rolls his eyes.

“Don’t you fucking roll your eyes at me, Washington. I’m in your head, I can see you doing that.”

One of the perks of having an AI that he had forgotten about. He lets out a breath and looks back to Locus, who doesn’t seem to be acknowledging Epsilon much. “Alright, you lead the way.”

There’s just another nod and then Locus fades into the backdrop. He can’t actually feel anything as Epsilon activates the active camo unit, but he casts a glance down at himself and has a hard time seeing much.

_Dude, get going. I’m gonna try and keep you blending in, but you’ve gotta move. Locus is already halfway there._

Epsilon is definitely exaggerating, but Wash moves anyway, not wanting to get left behind. He moves carefully over the open field, doing his best to keep quiet. Although that’s not going to matter if the cameras find him. Glancing around, he remembers where he had helped set up most of them himself. And also remembers setting them up very carefully to ensure no blindspots.

Carolina’s camo is better for making him look like a space pirate, not to make him disappear completely, but he has to hope Epsilon’s doing his best there to make his armor as grass covered as possible. Locus is barely visible as a faint shimmer in front of him. If Wash hadn’t spent the last several months watching for that slight person shaped haze out of the corner of his eye, he would probably be as blind to it as everyone else.

As long as no one’s updated the cameras to pick up on that, maybe they’ll be alright.

No alarms go off as they reach the wall. The cargo gate is one of three, and the smallest out of them, mostly meant for jeeps and bikes to come and go on quick scouting missions. Wash peers through the mesh of the gate. It looks dark and empty in the cargo bay on the other side. Maybe the whole city really is deserted.

Holding his breath, Wash tries the old passcode. He can’t see Locus, but he hears faint footsteps behind him and is pretty sure he feels him looming. There’s a horrible heartbeat of a moment before the panel lights up green and the lock clicks, the gate rising slowly open. Wash doesn’t wait for it to get all the way up, ducking and darting under, pulling his pistol from his hip as he looks about the cargo bay.

Dead quiet. His own footsteps seem unnaturally loud no matter how carefully he steps as he moves between the vehicles, checking the corners and behind supply crates that hadn’t been put away properly. Very soft clanking against the floor signals Locus’ approach before his camo flickers away and he comes into view. “Clear.”

Wash nods and glances toward the doorway, it’s half open, a cursory glance outside had given away nothing. If there’s anyone in the city, they aren’t guarding this entrance. Taking a breath, Wash does his best to quash the sinking feeling in his gut. “Epsilon, scan the area, any life signs?”

“Gimme a sec. Alright, no one in this section of the city, but I’ve got heat signatures a couple miles in.”

“How many?” Wash asks, voice even, trying not to let any hope in. It doesn’t mean anything until they know just who’s giving off those heat signatures.

“Looks like… maybe ten? They’re kinda bunched up, it’s hard to tell. And there’s more past that. Whoever’s here, it looks like they’ve kinda grouped up toward the center of the city.”

“Alright. Locus, stick close, follow my lead. We stay hidden and don’t engage until we know what we’re dealing with.”

Locus nods once, sharply. “Understood.”

He fizzles out of sight and Wash has to hold back a sigh.

 _Hey at least he follows orders_ , Epsilon notes, helpfully. He’s not wrong. Whatever else is going on in Locus’ head right now, and Wash does not want to think about that longer than he he has to, he sticks to his orders when he gets them. Old habits die hard all around apparently.

Despite all the time he’s spent in Armonia, the city seems unfamiliar when he steps out of the cargo bay. It is a fairly large place and with everyone keeping to a few square blocks, there’s parts of it that probably haven’t been touched in years. That doesn’t make the heavy quiet outside any less unsettling. Wash hasn’t seen too many movies on the subject, but he’s suddenly sure this is just what people mean when they use the phrase ‘ghost town’.

“Keep an eye out for possible hostiles,” he says, muting his exterior mic, so his voice is only there for Epsilon to hear.

 _Got it_.

The buildings here are dark, not so much as a light flickering in a window. Wash sticks to the shadows, pausing at the end of blocks, scanning this way and that, looking for any sign of life. Epsilon had been sure about the fact that there were people there somewhere, but the further in Wash goes, the heavier the stones in his stomach get.

But there haven’t been enough people to fill the city in all the time he’s been there, he tries to remind himself. This isn’t anything new. Had he been in this part of the city a month before, it probably would have looked just the way it does not. It’s about half as comforting as Wash wants it to be.

Head down, he keeps moving. The buildings cast plenty of shadows for him to hide in as he darts from place to place. There’s the occasional sound of a footstep nearby, though Epsilon’s quick to confirm that it’s just Locus, staying close as ordered. At least he’s not alone.

The worst part is the silence. Which Epsilon seems to pick up on, doing his part to fill Wash’s head with updates.

_One mile out, got five of them walking together, looks like a patrol maybe? Seems like they’re all broadcasting on the same radio frequency._

“Can you access it?”

_Not without shutting off the camo or the healing. I can only do so many things at once, Wash._

There’s a temptation to tell him to shut down the healing unit, but he’s pretty sure Epsilon wouldn’t listen even if he did. It doesn’t feel like he needs it. But then again, the last thing he needs right now is to suddenly start bleeding all over the place. They just got in, and if they break in once and get found out, the next attempt is going to be that much more difficult.

Epsilon points out quicker side streets to take as they get closer and closer to the movement he’s tracking. He calls for Wash to stop in a tiny little alley a few blocks from the building that had been home a month ago.

_That patrol’s coming our way. Hold here. Let’s see what we’re dealing with._

“Right. Where’s Locus?”

 _Up above. That fire escape across from us_.

“Can you relay a message?”

_Not unless I jump into his head, which--news flash--I can’t. He and Carolina ripped out their radios, remember?_

Right. Well, at least Locus can see him. Maybe that will be enough.

Wash holds his potion, back pressed to the building next to him, pistol in hand that he has no interest in using. That interest drops into the negatives when the patrol comes around the corner. No Reds or Blues, but he knows that armor, trained every last one of them. They’re not marching the way he trained them though.

Every step is perfectly in sync, like they’re being pulled along by invisible strings. The movements are stiff though, unnatural, obviously not their own. Wash wishes he knew for sure whether or not he could puke inside his helmet without drowning in it. He sucks in a steadying breath through his nose.

“Can you check their vitals from here?” he asks, whispering, though he knows he doesn’t have to. Epsilon doesn’t call him on it.

_Yeah, looks like they’re okay physically. It’s weird though…_

Wash’s brow furrows, concern creeping over him. “Weird how?”

_The readings are like… it kinda seems like they’re sleeping. I can’t check brain activity without hoping in their armor, but heart rate and everything else register as asleep._

Interesting. “Maybe they aren’t aware of what’s happening.”

Suddenly Wash hopes that’s the case. Whatever Felix makes any of them do, it’s better if they don’t remember, better if they aren’t watching, trapped in their own heads, screaming the entire time. That might make it that much worse when they wake up, but for now, it’s better they don’t know.

“Is there another patrol behind them?”

Yeah, looks like there’s another one that’s about… five minutes away at the speed they’re walking. After these guys go around the corner, you’re gonna have a nice big window to move.

“Alright. Any more people in the buildings there?” he asks, looking across the street. There’s a few office buildings there, ones that look pretty unoccupied, but it’s hard to say for sure.

_Nope, you’re all clear to move in. There’s another patrol that’s going around a few blocks in, but they’re on a timer too it looks like._

“Anything unusual?”

_You mean other than the mindless teenage robots wandering the city? Nah. It seems like they’ve cleared out a lot of the city, but… huh._

“What is it?”

_Not sure. Just move up, I’m gonna look at something for a bit._

Epsilon goes quiet, so Wash doesn’t ask again, but the curiosity nags at him. He looks up the fire escape, spotting a hint of movement. Lifting a hand, he motions to the building across the street, hoping Locus sees and takes note. There’s not really a good way to check, so he just moves.

The building is clear like Epsilon says. Wash gets a door open quickly and slips inside. He hears it open and shut again behind and whirls around to see Locus’ camo flicker down. Clicking on his mic, he takes a half step closer as he glances around the building. “I think we’re clear here. Epsilon’s working on something. He says there’s more patrols a few blocks up.”

Locus nods, helmet shifting, probably trying to look around the building. “Do you have a plan?”

“Get as close to the most populated areas as possible and scope out the situation. If there’s no sign of Tucker after an hour, we head back and regroup with Carolina to decide what to do next.”

Locus doesn’t tell him that’s it’s probably likely that Tucker’s already been discovered and moved out of the city, that they’ll probably never find him. He just nods and makes his way almost silently toward a door at the other side of the building.

They move up again and again, watching for patrols, Epsilon occasionally piping up with a warning before going back to whatever it is he’s doing. There’s no problem until they’re four blocks away from the central area. According to Epsilon there’s more people there than anywhere else, but still not a lot.

They’re waiting for the next patrol to go by before moving again, but as they round the corner, Wash’s heart drops into his stomach and started getting eaten away by acid.

There’s no mistaking that bright blue armor heading the patrol. Caboose has never looked so wrong. His arms are straight and limp at his sides, the usual jaunty swing gone, his steps jerky and unnatural, none of the usual bounce in his step. It’s his fault. They’re just sleeping right? Maybe if Wash could just wake him up--

_Don’t you fucking do it, Wash._

Epsilon’s voice makes him stop just as effectively as Locus’ hand locking around his wrist. They both hold in him place even though every fiber of Wash’s being wants to rush into the street and shake Caboose until he’s himself again. That’s his friend, his teammate, his family that Felix is walking around like a sick puppet. He wants to scream.

“There is nothing you can do for him,” Locus says, the low volume of his voice taking away none of the bite. “Even if you were to get through to him, we’ve seen half a dozen patrols who could be here in a matter of minutes to capture us.”

 _He’s right, Wash._ At least Epsilon sounds pained when he says it. _We can’t do shit for him like this. You’ve just gotta stay focused. We find Tucker and we can fix all of this._

They’re right and he hates it. Wash sucks in a sharp breath and faces the wall. They’re crouched down in another building, one that looks like it was definitely occupied until recently, though there’s not a sign that anything there has been touched in days.

He keeps his face toward the wall until Locus lightly taps his shoulder, signalling that the patrol has passed by. Looking his way, Wash gives a faint nod. As loathe as he is to admit it, it’s probably a good thing Locus is there. If it was just him and Epsilon, Wash isn’t sure he would’ve stopped himself.

Straightening up, he glances through the barely cracked open door. “Alright, lets move--”

“Wait a sec.” Epsilon’s voice crackles softly through the speakers of his helmet, almost making Wash jump. Locus looks his way, taking a step closer.

“Have we been spotted?” Locus asks, moving to peer through the windows, footsteps carefully quiet.

“No it’s… this doesn’t make sense. Why the hell are they only doing patrols this far in? They don’t know we’re here. I’ve checked like twenty times and we haven’t set off any alarms. And… it looks like they’ve been doing this for a while, since waaaay before we got here anyway.”

It’s a good point. Why would they only be running patrols in such a small section of the city If they expected an outside attack or a rescue attempt, they would have people closer to the walls. But they don’t.

“They’re looking for someone,” Locus says, voice low and rumbling.

“Tucker.” Wash feels something in his chest soar, trying to get out of the cage that he’s been keeping most distracting things in for the better part of the last several days. “He must’ve gotten away from them. They still think he’s in the city.”

“Doesn’t mean that he is,” Epsilon sounds carefully skeptical, like he’s trying not to get his hopes up, but Wash can feel the slight buzz of nerves and excitement tingling in the back of his mind. Wash can hardly blame him for that. Tucker might be here. He could be close. They just have to find him first.

“Is there any way we could get a signal to him that they wouldn’t see first?”

“No clue. I don’t know how functional those guys actually are and I’m guessing neither of you wanna be a test dummy to figure it out?” It’s a fair point. There’s no telling just how fast the reaction time will be without testing it first, and they don’t have the time or resources for that.

There has to be some way to find him first. “Epsilon, are there any heat signatures that aren’t with the patrols?”

“Lemme check. Oh, by the way, here’s a detailed map of the patrol routes and the timing, you’re fucking welcome.” And then the mic clicks off.

Well that explains what Epsilon’s been working on while he was silent earlier. That should make the exit strategy easier. Wash sends the map and schedule over to Locus, who gives a little nod when he receives it. “I’m going to go upstairs, look for potential vantage points.”

Wash nods. “Report in after ten minutes.”

Not having radios makes things that much more complicated. Wash crouches near one of the windows, almost motionless as Locus’ footsteps fade away up the stairs. With Epsilon quiet, he could almost pretend he’s entirely alone. The faint buzz never quite fades completely, and there’s a tiny part of him that’s missed that more than he’s ever going to admit.

According to Epsilon’s schedule, it should be almost five minutes before another patrol goes around the block. He studies the map carefully. The patrols don’t branch out far. They might not think Tucker’s going to get far. Or maybe they’re doubling down so he can’t. At least Price has never had a chance to get inside Tucker’s head to figure out how to lure him out. Maybe they don’t think he’s a priority.

That seems most likely now that he thinks about it. If Felix knew he could jeopardize everything, he probably would’ve had Tucker eliminated immediately. The thought turns his veins to ice and Wash forces down a breath to try to clear his head.

Tucker is fine. They’re going to find him. He promised he would come back, and he doesn’t make promises that he doesn’t mean to keep.

Wash frowns as his HUD clock keeps ticking, ten minutes approaching and passing. Another squad goes by. Locus doesn’t come back. That’s not like him. Wash shifts away from the window, back pressing to the wall as he straightens up.

“Epsilon? Epsilon are you there?”

There’s a slight pause before he feels a crackle of static in his head. _What? Yeah, yeah, I’m here, just kinda in the middle of something. What’s up?_

“I need to you check upstairs. Locus was supposed to be back by now.”

_Huh. Lemme see what the deal is. Oh. Oh shit. Okay, Wash, there’s two blips up there._

“Two?” Wash grips his pistol tightly and starts moving, feet quiet as he makes for the stairs. Another patrol will be going by outside soon, they have to stay quiet. Whoever else is up there hasn’t alerted the drones outside, but there’s no telling what that means. “Can you tell who the other one is?”

_Nah, I can’t get at them. But Wash--look, I think it’s gonna be okay--_

Wash wishes Epsilon would project himself for a moment if only so he could have something to glare at as he quickly makes his way upstairs. “Okay? How is this okay? We’ve been found. They could give away our position. They could--”

“Wash.”

His foot hits the top of the stairs at the same time his name is said by the one voice he’s wanted to hear for weeks. Wash goes completely still.

Tucker’s there. He’s really there. Admittedly, he’s got his sword aimed at Locus, who has his hands up, sniper rifle neatly cut into two pieces at his feet, but he’s there. His helmet is missing for some reason, and it looks like bits of his armor are a little singed in places, just like the ends of his hair, but his eyes are bright and warm and Wash can’t get over to him fast enough.

The light from the sword goes away as Wash crushes Tucker against his chest and holds him tight, one hand coming up to cup the back of his head. “You’re alright.”

“You really missed me that much while you were gone, dude?” Tucker laughs softly and the biggest weight suddenly lifts from Wash’s shoulders. The rest of the planet might still be going to shit outside. But Tucker is here. Tucker is alive and for the moment, he can’t make himself care about anything else.

Tucker’s arms lock around him and hold tight as he presses his face into the crook of Wash’s neck. For a moment, he almost wishes they weren’t in armor so he could feel Tucker against him, put a hand on his chest and feel the beat of his heart. “Locus said he was working with him, but I didn’t buy it when he couldn’t get you on radio.”

“We ripped them out. Carolina thought they might be used to track us.”

“Yeah, good call on that. Had to ditch my helmet so those fuckers wouldn’t track me down,” Tucker says, voice a little muffled. After a moment, he lifts his head up and looks at Wash, hands cupping his visor like he can see right through it.

Close up, Tucker looks rough. His eyes are bright, but the dark circles under them stand out sharply. There’s a cut high on his forehead that looks like it only stopped bleeding recently and a bruise spreads over his cheek. But he’s still alive. Tenderly, Wash reaches up, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. “We came to get you. We didn’t know if you’d still be in the city or not.”

“Yeah, I tried getting out once everyone else went all hivemind, but they locked shit down around here. I’ve been hiding out where I can, but I gotta keep moving every couple hours when they start kicking in doors. Almost got caught yesterday”

“Why not go for the walls?” Wash’s brow furrows.

Tucker makes a pained face and pulls away a little. It’s hard to see much in the low lighting of the building, but Wash follows Tucker’s gaze and understands instantly. There’s dried blood clinging to his left leg and it looks as though he can’t put any weight on it. “First time I tried getting the fuck out of here. The guys cornered me and Grif shoved me out a window. I played dead and got away, but I think it’s pretty fucked up. I landed right on this piece of rebar and… just trust me, it wasn’t fucking pretty. I managed to sneak some medical supplies and patch it up, but they almost got me doing that.”

He lets out a heavy breath and slumps against Wash’s chest, grabbing at his arms. “Kinda thought I was fucked there for a while.”

Tucker sounds beyond exhausted. He wraps his arms around Tucker and takes a breath to steady himself. “You’re not. We’re getting you out of here.”

“Yeah… you and Locus.” Tucker lifts his head up to stare at their so far silent observer.

Locus is very much still there, hands no longer held up in surrender. He seems to have made himself rather busy examining the pieces of his sniper rifle. There’s a heavy sigh at the sound of his name and he looks up at Tucker slowly. “I told you we were working together. If you had simply listened--”

“Yeah, listen to the guy who’s been trying to kill me for months, sure, I’m just gonna drop everything and buy that you’re here to save my ass,” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. “So you wanna tell me how the hell this happened? Or y’know, what the fuck is happening?”

That feels more directed at Wash. He sighs and presses a hand to the back of his neck automatically. “I failed.”

From there, with the occasional very small addition from Locus, Wash explains. Everything. How it went wrong. Price. The temple. What happened to Doc, which makes Tucker look downright ill. By the time he’s done, Tucker’s dragging his hands through his hair and taking a few deep breaths.

“So they really are mind control zombies or something? Shit, dude, how does this even happen to us?” He looks almost dizzy and Wash doesn’t blame him.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I’m… I’m sorry you were stuck here with them. After the temple, I was out for a while.”

Tucker just shrugs, his eyes grow distant as he stares off into the corner of the room. “It’s not your fault. Felix and that asshole Price are the ones that did all this shit. I just wish I knew what the hell was happening. Everyone just shut down. No one would talk to me. For like a day they didn’t even notice me. I tried to get into Kimball’s office to see if she was still normal and that’s when they started coming after me.”

“So they don’t know,” Locus says softly.

Frowning, Tucker cocks an eyebrow at him. “Know what?”

“That you have the key.” Locus straightens up slowly, helmet turned toward the window. “That you can stop all this.”

“The key? Wait, shit, you mean my sword?” Tucker’s brow furrows as he looks down at the hilt hanging at his hip. “Is that why it didn’t get me?”

Wash nods. “We think so. People with keys like yours are more resistant to the temples. If they want to get you under their control, they’ll have to devote a much bigger amount of focus and power. So as long as they don’t think you’re a threat, they probably won’t bother.”

“There’s no telling how long that will last,” Locus says, still looking out the window. “Once Price learns of the sword, he will hunt you down. Likely the only reason he doesn’t know is that Felix didn’t want to admit that any of you might be a threat.”

Tucker lets out a noise that’s almost a laugh. “Well, thank fuck for Felix being an asshole then, I guess. So you said I can stop this shit? How?”

“We need to get you to the temple, and quickly.” Locus finally looks back at him, and Wash can hear the frown in his voice as he looks over Tucker. “How badly damaged is your leg?”

“I can do whatever the fuck you need me to do,” Tucker says sharply. He’s still not putting any weight on his leg as far as Wash can tell. In fact, even standing still, he looks a little unsteady.

Taking a step closer, Wash winds an arm around his waist. Tucker leans into his side without protest. There’s a slight movement to his left as Locus very quickly turns away, helmet facing the window again, apparently checking for patrols. “How frequently do they check buildings?”

“It depends.” And Tucker sounds a bit less strained now, not having to keep himself upright on his own. “It’s more where they think I am. I lost them ten blocks down yesterday, think they’re still mostly searching over there. We should have a couple hours before they start kicking down doors here.”

There’s a lot of ifs in that. Wash finds his gaze drifting toward Locus. “We should still move soon. If we aren’t back soon, Carolina might come in after us.”

Tucker scoffs. “You think Carolina can’t get in here by herself?”

“She could, easily. It’s Doc I’m worried about.” Wash wants to believe Carolina wouldn’t leave him, but if her only allies go missing and she’s on her own, he’s not sure what she’ll do.

“Fuck… yeah, alright, we should get moving.” Tucker tries to take a step away from Wash, weight coming down on his bad leg. He sucks in a sharp breath and Wash quickly gets an arm around him again to stop him stumbling.

Locus is on Tucker’s other side in an instant, hand on his arm to steady him. For a moment, Wash isn’t sure which of the three of them is most surprised, but the silence that follows is heavy and a little uncomfortable. Locus breaks it. “You’re in no condition to move. Let me see your leg.”

“It’s fucking fine,” Tucker insists, but he hisses softly when his foot touches the ground. “It just… I was going over the roofs and ate shit getting in here and I think it started bleeding again.”

“Tucker,” Wash hisses out his name, immediately moving to set Tucker down. There’s a bit of furniture here and there and he finds an old couch, Locus helping ease Tucker down onto it before he moves to crouch at his side.

Locus reaches for the armor over Tucker’s thigh, but only makes it halfway there before Tucker jerks away from him. There’s not a sound, but Wash is sure from the motion of his shoulders that Locus just heaved a heavy sigh. “I won’t hurt you. I have a medical kit. The sooner you let me examine your let and bandage it, the sooner we can move.”

The distrust is written all over Tucker’s face, so Wash sinks down next to him and pulls off his glove and then one of Tucker’s so he can link their uncovered fingers together. “It’ll be alright. I’m right here. But Locus is right. We don’t have a lot of time, Tucker.”

Big brown eyes look his way. For a long moment, Tucker just stares at him. Then he sucks in a deep breath and squeezes Wash’s hand. “Alright, just fucking do it. But if you start feeling me up, I’m pretty sure I’ve got a decent angle to kick you in the balls.”

“Noted.” Locus sounds almost amused. He carefully pulls the armor from Tucker’s leg. His undersuit’s already been torn, so all Locus has to do is peel back the blood soaked material. Wash bites back a curse. The wound isn’t small. There’s blood soaked bandages covering it, but they’ve started to slip out of place, revealing what looks like messy stitching. Tucker must have done it himself and the thought makes Wash’s stomach lurch, but he forces his eyes to stay put as he gives Tucker’s hand a squeeze.

Not saying a word, Locus sets to work. There’s a few soft hisses from Tucker, but he doesn’t make any further attempts to pull his leg out of reach, not even when Locus begins to suture the wound. Wash glances at his face. Tucker’s eyes are shut tightly and it looks like he’s about ready to bite through his cheek.

He can’t walk like this, Wash realizes. And if one of them carries him, all the movement and jostling if they have to run is going to make things worse. He needs something faster than Locus’ sutures and bandages.

The healing unit. If he can just switch over that and Epsilon to Tucker--

_No fucking way, dude._

Of course that can’t be easy. Wash sighs and glances over Tucker and Locus. The sutures are done and Locus is carefully reapplying the bandages. Tucker’s slumped back against the couch, one arm thrown over his face. Leaning in, Wash moves to kiss Tucker’s cheek, getting halfway there before he remembers his helmet and goes to lightly bump his visor against Tucker’s forehead instead. “I’ll be right back. Are you okay here?”

“Fucking super,” Tucker mutters, sounding a little dazed, but he gives Wash’s hand a firm squeeze. “Go do your thing, babe. I’ll be here with your mistress.”

Wash has no idea what to say to that, but Tucker pulls his arm up so he can look at Wash. Grinning, he shoves his shoulder. “Dude, it’s cool. Go do whatever you’re doing. I’m good. Seriously.”

Tucker gives him a smile that looks genuine and then drops his hand, motioning Wash away. Leaving him alone with Locus makes something slightly uncomfortable twist in Wash’s gut, but he doesn’t think Locus would try something while he’s literally in the next room. Locus isn’t looking at either of them when Wash shoots a glance his way, attention focused on packing up the medical kit.

He… still probably shouldn’t leave them alone for too long. They might start talking and Wash is sure that conversation won’t end well for at least one of the three of them. So he quickly heads a few rooms away, muting his exterior mic.

“Epsilon--”

 _No fucking way._ Epsilon sounds just as certain this time. Damn it.

“Tucker needs the healing unit. You saw his leg. If we don’t get him out of city, this planet and everyone on it are doomed. You know that.”

_Yeah? And what about you? If I jump out of your head and something opens up again, I’m not gonna be able to do shit about it!_

“Is that likely?” Wash has felt the occasional twinge from his injuries, but for the most part, since they left the hideout where he woke up, he hasn’t felt nearly as bad. Rationally, he knows that even the healing unit can’t make everything perfect in just a few days, but it doesn’t feel nearly as bad as Epsilon’s making it out to be.

_Well, only if you do something stupid. So, y’know, knowing you, you definitely will._

Wash blows out a breath and presses a hand to his visor, wishing he could pinch the bridge of his nose. “We can’t stay here and we can’t leave him--”

 _Whoa whoa whoa, who the fuck said anything about leaving him? We came all this fucking way to get him!_ There’s something striking about the sudden note of urgency in Epsilon’s voice. In his head, the flicker of panic from the places where he and Epsilon overlap are unmistakable.

“We won’t leave him,” Wash says, a little harsher than he means to. “But if Locus or I try to carry him, his wound could easily reopen and he could bleed out before we even make it out of the city. The healing unit will at least give him a chance. You’ve patched me up as much as you can, you have to trust that it’s enough.”

There’s a slight pause. _You really think he’s that messed up?_

“You saw his leg. He’s been pushing himself as it is for days. He could barely stand there without help. He needs the healing unit, Epsilon. He needs you.” And Wash knows he’s said the right thing when there’s a rush of static in the back of his head like a sigh.

_Fucking--okay, okay fine, I’ll go! We’re gonna talk shit about you in his head the whole fucking time._

Wash finds himself biting back a laugh. “Fair enough. You’ve been in his head before, I’m sure he’ll be happy to have you back.”

_Eh, maybe._

Wash frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. He picks a spot on the opposite wall to look at. Without a hologram, it’s a bit strange knowing where to look when talking to Epsilon. “What? Are you… worried about going back in his head?”

 _No._ Epsilon says it a little too quickly. _It’s just… look, he’s not like you and Carolina with the AI stuff._

“How so?”

_He hasn’t… he doesn’t know how bad it can get, okay? So he can’t just throw walls up to keep me out the way you two can._

It takes a moment for Wash to figure out why. “You think you’re going to hurt him?”

Epsilon is dead quiet in the back of his head. Well… it’s not a concern Wash can blame him for completely. He’s probably the last person to tell Epsilon he shouldn’t worry about it. So he has to find a different route.

“You love him, don’t you?”

Static splutters back to life in his head. _What the fuck, Wash_?

“Tell me you don’t.”

_Go fuck yourself._

“He doesn’t try to hide anything from you, does he? He leaves himself open and I bet that scares the shit out of you.”

_Just kill me. Seriously, if you could just put me out of my misery right now, that would be fucking great._

“It scares me too.” It’s not something Wash has talked about with Tucker. Or with anyone. “Tucker’s open and trusting. It feels like you could tell him anything, do anything and he’d find a way to forgive you. And that’s terrifying, isn’t it? Because it’s that much easier to hurt him.”

For a long moment, his head is quiet. _I don’t want to break him_ , Epsilon says, very quietly. _All this shit, with him being alone and stuck out here… what if I make it worse?_

A week before, Wash would’ve been absolutely sure that no matter what Epsilon did, he would’ve found a way to make it worse. But that’s not fair. “You’re not the same way you used to be, Epsilon. I can feel it. You’ve put yourself back together too. I know… I know being in my head can’t be easy, but being back with me doesn’t mean you’re going to go back to how you were then. You’re stronger than you think you are.”

Again, Epsilon goes silent, but Wash can feel him buzzing with thought. _Alright. Alright fine. I still don’t like any of this, but I’ll get in your boyfriend’s head. Just stop nagging me, Jesus._

“Fair enough.”

There’s more he could say there, more both of them probably should say. But there isn’t time and for once Wash doesn’t feel like pushing his luck. He’s probably left Locus and Tucker alone together for far too long already.

Moving back toward the door, he hears low voices on the other side that stop abruptly when he carefully pushes it open. Tucker looks at him with a grin that’s too intentionally innocent to be anything near that. Locus is still close, looming over him like a protective statue, arms crossed over his chest.

“Sup Wash,” Tucker greets, casual tone a little too forced. “Get your shit worked out in there?”

“Yeah, all taken care of. Is… everything alright out here?” He glances between them. It definitely seems as though something is off about the air of the room.

“Just fine. Me and Locus were just shooting the shit, nothing serious.”

“He tried to talk me into cutting his leg off,” Locus says, sounding somewhere between amused and offended, which is odd actually. That’s the most Locus has emoted since the temple. 

“Hey Wash, your stalker is a fucking snitch.” Tucker crosses his arms, looking disgruntled and shame free even as Wash turns to stare at him sharply.

“Tucker, what the hell? We aren’t cutting your leg off!” That probably wouldn’t even help. The only thing it could possibly do is make him slightly less heavy to carry. It’s not as though they’ve got a stash of prosthetic limbs lying around. Maybe if they could get to the hospital and find one Dr. Grey had lying around… but no, there’s no way that would work.

“It was just an idea.” Tucker glowers at the floor. “It’s fucked anyway. I just wanna stop dealing with the fucking thing.”

Wash lets out a breath. If Tucker’s been trapped here all alone, slowed down by his leg, well… he can almost understand wanting to cut it off. But that’s definitely not going to help them now.

Already reaching for the healing unit, Wash moves to kneel next to Tucker. “Your leg will be fine. I’ve got a healing unit. Epsilon needs to jump to you to run it--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Epsilon’s here?” Tucker sits up sharply, brows rushing toward his hairline. “Wait, fuck, is he in your head right now?”

“Sure am, asshole.” Epsilon’s hologram flickers into being near Tucker, moving to his hands when Tucker holds them out, palms flat. “Miss me?”

For a second, Tucker’s eyes light up as he cups his hands around Epsilon, the corners of his mouth turning up easily. But then he catches himself and snorts. “You wish.”

Wash wishes there was more time. They should get to have a moment. Tucker’s been here on his own for too long, he should get to be with one of the few friends he has left for longer than this. But they need to move.

He gets the healing unit hooked into place and then rocks back on his heels, still crouching. There’s a slight ache now that it’s gone, but nothing feels like it’s about to start bleeding again. It’s going to be fine. “Alright Epsilon, the healing unit’s in place.”

“Right.” There’s a slight hesitation and Epsilon’s tiny helmet looks his way. For a second, there’s a rush of feelings in Wash’s head that aren’t his. And then there’s a crackle of static and he’s alone in his own mind again.

Wash lets out a breath and he’s not sure if it’s out of relief or disappointment. Better to think about that later.

Tucker winces, screwing up his face a little, probably as Epsilon gets settled, but then he gives himself a little shake and straightens up. Wash leans forward a little, pressing one hand lightly to Tucker’s leg. “How bad is it?”

Epsilon’s hologram flickers for a second and then he makes a low noise that doesn’t sound like it means anything good. “He’s right, it’s pretty fucked. Gonna take a little while to get it patched up.”

“How long is a little while?”

“Twelve hours. I can keep it from getting any worse, but he’s not gonna be back on this leg for a while.”

Wash lets out a breath. It’s about what he had expected. So no changes there. They still need to find a way to get out. “Alright, keep working on that, Locus and I will plan a route out of the city and then we need to move.”

He straightens up, reaching to squeeze Tucker’s shoulder before moving toward the corner of the room, motioning for Locus to follow him. Tucker huffs, but doesn’t protest, eyes going back to Epsilon’s hologram, making a face like they’re already talking in his head. They probably have a lot to catch up on.

It’s not that Wash doesn’t want Tucker to overhear the map planning, but there’s… something else they have to talk about. He pulls out a datapad from his armor, pulling up the map and schedule Epsilon made. It doesn’t take long to plan a route. With the way the patrols are set up, there’s no straight path to an exit that will get them out, but there should be enough room between them for them to work their way out. That’s simple enough.

“There should be jeeps here, here, and here,” Wash says, circling locations on the map. “If we can get one, that should make things that much easier.”

Locus nods, one hand tapping at the chin of his helmet. “Patrols are heavier there, but… the faster we move, the better. Until then one of us will have to carry the captain.”

Wash blinks at him for a second before realizing he means Tucker. For some reason the formality catches him by surprise, as if Locus has ever called him anything other than ‘Agent Washington’. Apparently Tucker gets a title too.

“You’re going to have to carry him,” Wash says, a little grudgingly. “I’m still not at one hundred percent and if I strain myself while I’m carrying him, we could lose him and the sword.”

Locus sighs, but nods. “Agreed. I’ll carry him and you cover us until we can get to a vehicle. Ideally, we should try to find a jeep and a motorcycle. I’ll take the latter and draw patrols away if necessary.”

That ‘if necessary’ part makes Wash frown, but he doesn’t argue. “Right. If we get separated, we regroup at the exit. No guns unless there’s no other options. None of these people have any idea what they’re doing. They’re the victims here.”

“I’m well aware.” Locus sounds like he’s frowning, but he doesn’t protest. “If we could find some… non lethal weapons, perhaps hit an armory on the way?”

“We’re already pushing it with the detour for the vehicles. We’ll just have to make do.” Even if they were to stop, they hadn’t really been stocking up on less lethal weapons in the city as far as Wash remembers. There are no good options for fending off the apparently mindless drones. More time they spend trying to find one, the more time they’re wasting. He takes a breath glancing back over his shoulder at Tucker.

“No matter what happens, you get Tucker out, alright? If we hit trouble… leave me and take him.”

For some reason, Locus makes a noise that might be a laugh. Wash looks at him, eyebrows shooting up. “I’m not joking.”

“I didn’t think that you were.” Locus straightens a little, caught. “It’s only… your captain made me promise a very similar thing. Both of you are so willing to make the noble sacrifice.”

Wash doesn’t feel particularly noble about it. And he sort of wants to go yell at Tucker for… doing the exact same thing. Which means he probably shouldn’t. They don’t have time for that fight. Leaving him behind makes sense, he’s already hurt and he’ll only slow them down, Tucker’s the one they need to get out.

He takes a breath and shakes his head a little. “No one is sacrificing anyone. Forget what I said, forget what Tucker said. We get out of here together, all of us. I’ve already left enough people behind.”

There’s more intensity in his voice than he means there to be, and when he looks at Locus, he gets the distinct feeling he’s being stared at. But after a moment, Locus nods.

They check the route one last time before Locus moves back to the couch. Their window opens in ten minutes. It takes about half that time to get Tucker up on Locus’ back, arms locked around his shoulders.

“I hate this,” Tucker says, for about the tenth time.

“I know.” Wash has to reach up to grab his arm. It feels strange looking up at Tucker and it’s that much weirder seeing Locus carry anyone piggyback style. Wash almost wishes Locus would take off his helmet so he could get a look at his face, but that’s probably unnecessarily cruel.

The pair of them almost over balance and topple down the stairs twice, but they manage to get to the ground floor without alerting the patrol passing by outside. Wash peeks through the cracked open door and can’t breathe when he sees pink armor. Damn it. They’ll get him back. They’re going to get all of them back.

He counts to ten in his head and when he opens his eyes, Donut’s patrol is almost around the corner. Wash holds position until they disappear behind the tall buildings of the next block. Pushing the door open slowly, he slips out, peering up and down the street before motioning for Locus and Tucker to follow.

Sneaking through the streets is the worst version of ‘red light, green light’ Wash has ever been forced to endure, and that includes the time Caboose made him play with Freckles. Even with the patrols going around and around, the city is unnaturally still. The quiet presses in on Wash’s ears. He almost misses Epsilon’s chatter in the back of his skull.

It’s hard not to glance back at Locus and Tucker every five seconds. Tucker’s doing his best to keep his head down. Maybe there’ll be an extra helmet in the motor pool. As if they would get that lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one got really long and the next one might too. It's hard to find a good spot to break things up in this section. I also feel like I should apologize for what I did to Doc. If any part of this needs more warnings, just let me know and I'll make sure to add them to the note at the top, I tried to cover everything, but if there's anything I missed, I'll make sure to fix that! Thank you so much for the kudos and the comments! I think next chapter probably has the meanest thing I've ever written, so look forward to that!


	34. Disappear When You Come Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Minor character death

The patrols around the motorpools are more concentrated and frequent. It makes sense. The last thing they’d want is Tucker getting his way to a vehicle and making for the gate. A squad of rebels circles every few minutes like clockwork, never straying far from the building. 

A block away, Wash holds up a hand and hears Locus stop behind him. “We have to do this fast. When we move, we’ll have two minutes to get in the building and shut ourselves in before they come back around. On my mark, we go.”

Wash counts the seconds in his head as he waits for the patrol to disappear around the corner. He drops his hand and starts moving. Their footsteps sound impossibly loud as they rush across the street, but the patrol doesn’t come back around. They’re so exposed here. He moves toward the corner of the building, watching for the first sign of armor. 

“Epsilon, get the door open now,” he hisses over his shoulder. 

“He’s working on it. They changed the codes, he’s gotta force his way through,” Tucker says, voice low. 

A bead of sweat drips down the side of Wash’s face and he forces himself to breathe evenly. Don’t panic, They have time. Two more minutes. A minute and a half. 

It takes another thirty seconds before there’s a soft click and Locus pulls the door open, ducking to get in. Wash darts in after them, pulling the door shut behind them. A slight weight lifts off his chest, so far so good. 

The motorpool is barely more than a large garage. There’s a few jeeps here and there, not as many as he was hoping, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least most of them look to be in one piece. Wash scans the room carefully, checking for cameras of bugs. It seems clean, and maybe that’s more of a surprise than it should be. The only cameras on the motorpools before now were outside to track the cars coming and going, and mind controlling someone into carefully setting up a camera might be a bit more effort than Felix or Price are willing to go to if they could just catch Tucker on the way out. 

But that means that once they move, they can’t stop. If the patrol doesn’t see the garage door going up, they’ll almost certainly notice the movement on the cameras. 

A brief glance around is enough to tell him they aren’t going to find much in the way or armor or weapons. Wash fights down a sigh and looks over in time to see Locus set Tucker down in a jeep with a surprising amount of care. Locus kneels beside the driver’s seat and helps Tucker get his bad leg situated before checking out the jeep. Seeing the two of them together feels strange, almost wrong somehow, the best and worst parts of his life touching and overlapping.

Wash turns away to make himself stop projecting. He checks a few of the jeeps himself and then the three motorcycles. None of them have been sabotaged, which seems strange. Maybe mind control doesn’t work well with fine motor skills. 

“I think these work alright,” he calls over his shoulder, still trying to keep his voice low. Soft footsteps signal Locus’ approach. Wash steps back to let him sling a leg over the motorcycle. After checking the gauges, Locus nods. 

“It looks functional. The captain believes he is good to drive. Once you get the door open, I’ll go out and lead the patrol away. If I don’t regroup with you at the exit ten minutes after your arrival, go on without me,” Locus says evenly. “Don’t wait.”

Frowning, Wash grips the handle of the motorcycle, protest trying to form, though he’s not sure why. If Locus is captured, would he give them away? Would he hurt any of the people under the temple’s control to get away? What would Felix and Price even do with him if they caught him?

Guilt sneaks up on him after that last question. Somehow, he doubts Felix handles betrayal well. Even if Locus gave over everything he knew of their plans, which… isn’t much in the way of details at the moment, there’s almost certainly going to be hell for him to pay. Wash shouldn’t care. He should be willing--no, not just willing, gleeful at the prospect of Locus getting a bit of comeuppance. 

But he isn’t. Even thinking about it in the vaguest way makes something uncomfortable shift in his stomach. 

Wash doesn’t know how to put any of it into words, and they need to move. There isn’t time to think or argue. So he takes a breath. “You lead them off and then regroup with us,” he says sternly. “If they’re on foot, you should be able to lose them easily enough or you’re not half the soldier I thought you were.”

He turns away and heads for the door before Locus has a chance to respond or argue. Tucker’s eyes are definitely on the back of his head as Wash moves to the controls of the garage door. Hand ready over the button, he looks back to Locus. “On my mark.”

Locus nods and the engine revs as the motorcycle comes to life beneath him. Wash slams the button and the garage door rushes up toward the ceiling. The motorcycle roars and Locus is halfway down the block before the door is all the way up. 

Wash is already moving for the jeep. Gunshots and dozens of heavy footfalls rush after Locus. This is their opening. Wash throws himself into the passenger’s side of the jeep and Tucker slams his foot down. Tires screech as they peel out of the garage and make a sharp turn. 

“Yeah, Epsilon, I fucking know not to head straight there,” Tucker mutters, apparently at no one. He jerks the wheel hard again, sending them careening down another empty street. Shots ring out behind them and Wash spins around in his seat, watching as patrols flood into the street behind them. 

Not as many as he expected. Locus must’ve pulled more than Wash thought. He can’t hear the sound of his motorcycle well enough to tell where he’s headed now. But he can’t worry about that.

Bullets fly past their heads and he’s painfully aware of the fact that Tucker doesn’t have a helmet. Damn it. The windshield cracks twice, but doesn’t break. Tucker’s eyes never leave the road, but he weaves this way and that. Epsilon, he must be guiding him, seeing just where the bullets will come and calculating out to avoid them. 

They rush around a corner, then another, the wind roaring in Wash’s ears as they finally straighten out. Behind them, the last of the patrols start to fade into the distance. Letting out a breath, Wash sinks into his seat. “Alright, I think we lost them.”

“Fuck yeah, we did.” Tucker grins wide, eyes bright and alive with a manic sort of energy. God Wash’s missed him. 

There’s no one shooting at them, so Wash yanks off his helmet and leans over. He grabs Tucker by the chest plate and hauls him in, kissing him hard. Tucker makes a soft noise of surprise, but then one of his hands leaves the wheel and snakes up into Wash’s hair, gripping tight. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fact that it’s just been too damn long since the last time, but there’s a raw, aching need as he presses into Tucker, the warmth of his lips almost intoxicating. 

It doesn’t last long though, and Tucker has to jerk the wheel hard to the side when he suddenly pulls away so they don’t crash. He winces and smacks at his own head. “Jesus, Church, stop screaming, I know okay?”

Ah, right. That’s probably a little awkward for Epsilon. But Wash still can’t get the grin off his face, and it only grows when one of Tucker’s hands leaves the wheel again to take his, linking their fingers together. They’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s starting to feel like things might end up alright as they speed toward the city gates. 

* * *

Locus isn’t there after ten minutes. 

Wash is out of the car, pacing. They’re miles from the end of the last patrol route, on foot, it’s going to take anyone under the mind control ages to reach them. They’re fine. They have time. They can wait… just a bit longer. 

He still isn’t there after fifteen minutes. After twenty. 

Tucker’s fingers drum on the steering wheel, brows pinched together. “Where the fuck is he?”

“I don’t know.” But there’s a deeply unpleasant feeling curling in Wash’s gut. They should go. It’s what Locus said. They got what they came for. Tucker and his sword are mostly in one piece, and that’s all they need to stop this. They should regroup with Carolina and just… leave him. 

The more the thought runs around in Wash’s head, the sicker it makes him feel. Taking a breath, he pulls his rifle from his back. “I’ve got to go back.”

“Wash, what the fuck?” Tucker sounds more frustrated than anything else. He exhales heavily and looks toward the city. “He said ten minutes right? We should go…”

But Tucker makes no move to start the jeep again, eyes fixed on the city. There’s distant noises, sounds that might be gunshots, but it’s hard to tell just where they’re coming from. Wash’s hands tense on his rifle. It would be easier to leave. The exit is ten feet away. He could get out, get Tucker somewhere safe and come back alone. Or just leave and never look back. 

“You think he’ll sell us out if they get him?” Tucker asks, voice cutting through Wash’s spiraling thoughts. 

“I don’t know,” Wash says, honestly. Locus could. That would probably make things easier for him if he gets taken back to Felix and Price. It’s impossible to know. For a while, Wash had been half sure he understood Locus, could predict him… almost trust him to an extent, at least trust him to act accordingly. 

And then he had helped Carolina rescue him and Doc and nothing made sense anymore. 

Tucker sighs heavily and revs the engine. “Wash, get in. We’re going back.”

Wash jolts, looking back at him sharply. He should argue, but Tucker’s jaw is set, eyes slightly narrowed, hands gripping the wheel tight. So Wash rounds the jeep and hops into the passenger’s seat, rifle at the ready. 

They speed back toward the city and Wash wants it to feel like a mistake, but the tight knot of tension in his gut slowly starts to untangle itself. 

As they get closer, Tucker starts muttering to himself and Wash in turn. “Alright, the patrols are all off, but some of them are regrouping. Shit, looks like a bunch headed that way, I think… yeah, yeah alright, I’ll tell him. Okay, it looks like Locus went this way, but he’s got one hell of a tail on him.”

Wash curses under his breath. “Alright, stop before we get too close to the patrols. Wait with the jeep and I’ll--”

“No fucking way, dude,” Tucker says, cutting him off, not even looking Wash’s way. “I’m not letting you just run out there. We don’t have radios, there’s no fucking way you’d get him and get back here before they catch you. We’re not fucking doing that.”

“Well, we can’t just leave him.” Wash doesn’t think before it comes out of his mouth.

“We’re not,” Tucker says, before he can take it back. “I’ve been running around this place long enough to know my way around. Just trust me, Wash.”

Wash hates that the ‘trust me’ card still works on him. “Alright, what did you have in mind?”

“Well, I dunno about you, but I kinda wanna see how fast this jeep can go.” Wash can hear the grin in Tucker’s voice as he slams the gas and they speed around the corner so fast, he has to grab at the dashboard to stop sliding in his seat. 

Without his helmet, Wash can feel the wind whipping at his face and tugging at his hair. He grits his teeth and clutches at the jeep as Tucker speeds around corner after corner, the world moving past them too quickly for Wash to make out anything. 

“We’re getting close,” Tucker says, jerking the wheel roughly and forcing the jeep around another turn. “Epsilon says he’s gotta be somewhere in the next couple blocks. I’m gonna do a couple passes, yell if you see him, alright?”

“Right.” Wash forces the word out loud enough to be heard and starts looking closer at the streets they pass. There are people here, most turning toward them by the time they’ve already passed. Apparently mind control doesn’t make for great reaction times. Good to know. 

A few bullets get shot their way, but several seconds too late, missing them by a mile. They aren’t staggered patrols here, the organized lines devolving probably in their chase for Locus. Wash scans the streets, seeing a few familiar sets of armor, but none they’re looking for. But there is something else. Damn it. 

“That’s his motorcycle,” Wash calls to Tucker, trying to get a good look at the abandoned bike as they pass. “Looks like the wheels got shot out.”

There’s a long skid mark in the street behind it, the bike itself splayed awkwardly on the pavement. At least there’s no blood near it, or none that Wash can see. 

“Fuck.” Tucker jerks the jeep around another corner. “He must be close then. Epsilon, you got any weird readings? Weird how… I don’t know, can’t you fucking scan for mind control or something?”

“People who aren’t asleep,” Wash says, turning toward Tucker sharply. “Epsilon said that people under the temple’s control register as asleep. Locus is going to be the only one awake besides us for miles.”

“Seriously? They’re fucking sleep walking? No wonder they can’t aim for shit.” Tucker shakes his head a little. “That gonna work, Church?”

Wash doesn’t know what Epsilon says in response, but he’s assuming it’s not great when Tucker swears. “What? Can he not find him?”

“No, he can do it, just gotta stay put while he does it. I’ve gotta find some place to stop. Wash, can you keep them off us?”

Fight back a horde of mindless drones, who don’t know what they’re doing and who’s faces he definitely knows, sure. Easy. Wash knows that he’s hated parts of his life more than this, but it’s very difficult to remember any other specific part quite this terrible. But they don’t have much of a choice. He takes a breath. “How much time do you need?”

“As much as you can give me.”

“Just find a place to park.” He throws his rifle into the back of the jeep. No guns, no bullets, no helmet. Perfect.

Tucker swings them around a corner, pulling into a narrow alley. He slams on the brakes as they duck behind a massive dumpster. Not bad for cover. Footsteps at one end of the alley approach as Wash leaps out of the passenger’s seat. He crouches behind the corner of the dumpster and takes a breath. 

The footsteps draw closer and closer, shots echoing as the mindless drones fire aimlessly at the alley walls. Maybe they don’t really know where they are. But then the footsteps reach the dumpster and he blows out a breath. Damn it. Alright, he just has to be smart about this. 

Wash waits until the footsteps are just inches away before he moves. Jensen’s armor. He bites back the painful surge of realization and knocks the barrel of her gun to the side, another bullet lodged harmlessly in the wall. A blow to the side of her helmet sends her staggering and a well placed kick sends her staggering back into Wexler, both of them falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs. 

Donut’s just behind them and Wash sucks in a sharp breath and just barely ducks out of the way of a shot that would’ve gone right through his forehead. Staying down, he bull rushes Donut, knocking him back and sending him sprawling on the concrete. They should all be fine. Nothing fatal, just a few bruises. If only that made him feel any better. 

Bullets whiz past his ears and Wash ducks back behind the dumpster again. At least the narrow alley and the broken patrols mean it’s just a few of them trickling in at a time. He can do this. 

He sends a few more Feds and rebels into the growing crumpled heap and then goes still as blue armor rounds the corner. Shit. Sucking in a sharp breath, he darts back into hiding and hammers on the jeep. “Tell me he’s got it.”

“Almost, just need a few more seconds to get an exact location,” Tucker says, fingers drumming on the wheel of the jeep, sounding about half as frantic as Wash feels. 

Damn it. What does he do against Caboose? How does he take him down without hurting him? He’s tried going for his legs before in sparring, and it’s like trying to wrestle a tree. Flipping him and winding him might work, but then he’ll be close enough for Caboose to grab and rip right in half. 

But he has to do something. 

So Wash takes a breath and moves. Caboose is less than a foot away, the arm not holding his gun, hanging strangely at his side. Everything about him looks wrong, especially the way he carefully trains the gun on Wash. Ducking, Wash rushes forward, sliding through Caboose’s legs and popping up on the other side. A kick to his back makes Caboose stumble, but he recovers in less than a second, turning toward Wash again. 

The trick works two more times. On the third, he’s in the middle of his rush when Caboose swings wildly and catches him with a blow to the side that leaves Wash winded as he staggers, trying to get his footing again. It takes too long and a massive hand clamps around his arm. Shit shit shit. 

His back hits the dumpster with a massive clang and then Wash is blinking at the barrel of a gun. “Caboose, please--”

The trigger clicks and confetti hits Wash in the eye. It stings a little. Gaping, Wash just stares as a light on the gun flickers. If he didn’t know better, he would say it was winking at him. “Freckles?”

“Agent Washington is not a designated target,” says the gun, robotic voice calm and even as Caboose’s massive hand shakes the gun as if that’ll make it shoot. “Captain Caboose is not in control of his faculties. Please return control to Captain Caboose.”

“I… I will,” Wash says, once he figures out how to get his mouth to work again. 

Caboose lifts the gun like a club and Wash jumps to the side as it hits the dumpster with an echoing clang. He readies himself to move again, but Caboose’s arm just comes down again and again, slamming the gun into the metal. The light grows dimmer. 

“Return Captain Caboose,” says the gun, voice weaker, fainter. 

Wash’s heart rises into his throat. He has to do something. 

“Wash, we’ve got him! We need to move now,” yells Tucker from around the corner, the engine of the jeep already revving. 

There’s no time. Freckles' lights sputter and start to fade.  


“We’ll get him back, Freckles, I promise.” And Wash turns and sprints around the corner of the dumpster, throwing himself into the jeep. “Go, now!”

They rocket out of the alley and Wash doesn’t look back. He can’t. 

* * *

The jeep rounds a corner so fast, the wheels on Wash’s side leaves the ground and it’s only Tucker throwing an arm around him that keeps him from flying out and onto the pavement. He knows they need to move, but that seems like a little much. Tucker says something, but it’s impossible to make it out until all four wheels are back on the road. “What was that?”

“He’s on this block, big building on the left,” Tucker repeats, nodding at what looks like an office building. “I can’t stop. You gotta jump out and go find him. I’ll do laps till you get him out, try and get them following me.”

That instantly sets Wash’s nerves on edge, but it’s a good plan. If Tucker can pull the patrols off him long enough for him to get Locus, that’s their best shot. They should be aiming for him most anyway. That doesn’t make Wash like the idea any more. 

He grabs Tucker’s arm, squeezing, though it’s probably hard to feel much through the armor. “Stay close. I’ll be in and out in one minute--two minutes tops.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Now go save your stalker,” Tucker says, sounding like he’s grinning beneath Wash’s helmet. It’s a good look, the gray and yellow with his teal. Wash wishes he had more time to appreciate it.

But he turns away, pulling his legs up onto the seat, gripping at the jeep, ready to spring. The building draws closer and closer. It’s one of the ones that was empty and abandoned even before they got to Armonia, something that hadn’t changed once the rebels started pouring in. The front doors are still boarded up, but more than a few windows are broken, including one on the first floor just next to the door. Probably Locus’ entry point. Alright, if he goes in there, Wash should be able to find him easy. 

He takes a breath and leaps as Tucker pulls even with the window. Arms braced in front of his face, he tumbles through the window, bits of broken glass jabbing at his armor, but not making it through. 

Wash rolls a few times and stops on one knee. There’s a gun in his face before he can get up. He follows the line of the barrel and realizes why he’s not dead yet. 

“Agent Washington?” Locus sounds more irritated than surprised. But there’s definitely some surprise there. “What are you doing here? I told you to go--”

“And I told you that the three of us were all making it out. Now get that out of my face and help me up, asshole.” He holds up a hand and Locus takes it, pulling him to his feet in a motion that’s far too easy, like he weighs nothing to Locus. “Tucker’s circling the block, we need to be ready to go when he comes around again.”

“You brought him with you?” Now Locus sounds like he wants to scream, dropping Wash’s hand like it’s something slimy and disgusting. “You’ve put the entire mission in jeopardy!”

“He wouldn’t let me go alone,” Wash bites back, almost glad that he doesn’t have his helmet so Locus can see him glaring. “And he was probably right not to. Now are we going or not?”

Locus looks at him for a long moment before his shoulder slump and he moves to one of the unbroken window, peering through it. “It looks like most of the soldiers followed him. If he can stay ahead of them, we may have a chance.”

Moving up next to him, Wash glances out at the street. There’s still several suits of armor walking puppet-like along the street, but more of them have turned away from their hiding spot, heading down the block, the way Tucker had been heading. Not as many followed Locus as Wash had thought. Or maybe he and Tucker had just pulled more on their way to get him. Either way, for the moment… he almost likes their chances.

A revving engine approaches and Wash moves to the other side of the window, poised and ready to move. “If he stops, he can’t hold for long, as soon as he gets close, we need to move.”

Locus just gives a stiff nod, bracing himself like he’s ready to run. Good. Wash sucks in a breath and tries not to count the seconds in his head. He looks out the window. Still no sign of the car, but it sounds closer. Lifting his rifle, he smashes the glass out of the way and ducks back. Bullets hail against the outside of the building, but only a few make it through the window, missing them both by a mile. Aim must not be high on the list of skills made better by mind control. 

The jeep gets closer and Wash breathes out. The front wheels come into view and he moves. Wash leaps out the window, staggering only a little when his feet hit the pavement, but he keeps moving, head down as he rushes for the still moving jeep. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know Locus is right on his heels. Tucker sees them coming and throws out an arm, pulling Wash into the passenger’s seat. Both of them turn and grab at Locus, who takes their hands without hesitation, swinging himself up into the back of the jeep. 

Wash looks to Tucker and sees him grinning, which is weird, and he can’t figure out why before Tucker slams the helmet back onto Wash’s head. “You keep that.”

He doesn’t have time to protest before Tucker slams on the gas and they speed off down the street. They rush down the street, nearly knocking into half a dozen armored soldiers. Bullets start flying past them on either side, more and more cracking the windshield. Wash glances behind them and instantly ducks down. Tucker’s hand is on his head a second later, keeping him there. “Stay put, babe. I got this.”

Wash can’t stop the urge to pop his head up. He should give Tucker his helmet. He’s the one driving. He’s the one that needs it. Tucker is the only one that has to make it out. 

More bullets come their way and before Wash can scream for Tucker to get down, Locus moves, standing straight in the back of the jeep, just behind Tucker, barely jerking as the shots find their mark. 

“Fucking shit--Wash grab him,” Tucker yells as they round a corner and Locus starts to slump, nearly toppling out of the jeep. 

Wash catches Locus’ arm and yanks him back, holding tight as they speed away and out of range of the patrols. Cursing under his breath, Wash shifts in his seat, pushing himself up on one knee as he shoves Locus down in the back. There’s blood slowly pooling under him. “Tucker, keep us going for the exit, I’m gonna see how bad he is.”

“Got it.” Tucker nods, eyes focused on the road ahead, jaw set. 

Climbing into the back, Wash pushes a groaning Locus back down. “Stop moving. Where were you hit?”

Locus shakes his head and grabs the side of the jeep to try to sit up again. “Nowhere critical. I’m fine.”

“You’re not, stop moving, that’s an order,” Wash says sharply. It does the trick and Locus goes still. The back of the jeep is cramped with both of them in there, Locus’ long legs bent at angles that can’t be comfortable. It’s hardly a good place for emergency first aid, but they can’t exactly pull over and stop. At least Locus thought to bring a medical kit along. 

Patting at his armor, Wash finds five bullet holes and quickly fills them with biofoam, all while Locus stays statue still. If not for the readings on his helmet’s bio scan confirmed otherwise, Wash might think he was dead. As it is, his vitals aren’t great. There’s so much blood in the back and filling the holes does nothing to replace what’s already been lost. 

“How’s he doing?” Tucker calls back. There’s more concern in his voice than Wash expects. Then again, Locus did take all those bullets for him. The adrenaline is still pumping through Wash’s head, but that doesn’t drown out the voice asking why over and over again. 

“He’s stable, but we need to get him out of here soon to remove the bullets,” Wash calls back. The rush of sound around they has died down. They’ve left the patrols behind, probably more than halfway to their exit point. 

“We should be outta here in just a sec. Don’t let him die back there. I’ve gotta kick his ass.” The concern is still there, but there’s something else, something like confusion in Tucker’s voice. 

Wash understands that much. First the diversion, now this? Locus’ words from days before come back to his mind before he can stop them.

_ You talk as though you expect me to survive this planet. _

Terrible thoughts fill Wash’s head that he does his best to force down. The strangest part is the amount of unease that comes with them. Why should he care if Locus dies here? Isn’t that what he deserves?

No… whatever Locus has coming, a heroic death here isn’t happening. Wash won’t let it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I think this is the chapter that I feel the meanest for writing. I might try to find a way to make things okay later, but we'll have to wait and see. Anyway, thank you so much for all the kudos and comments!


	35. Never Simple, Never Easy

Tucker doesn’t stop the jeep until they’re several miles outside Armonia. Stopping before they regroup with Carolina and Doc makes anxiety claw at Wash’s stomach, but they need to do something about Locus. He’s stable, but when Wash gets his helmet off, he doesn’t like the way his skin has gone ashy or the glassy look in his eyes. 

“Give him the healing unit.” Tucker’s still in the driver’s seat, leaning back over it to get a better look at Locus as Wash checks for injuries he might have missed. “My leg’s not gonna open up again if I’m just driving. He’s got a storage unit for Epsilon, right?”

“Tucker, I’m not sure--”

“I’m not letting that asshole die for me,” Tucker says, the bite to his words taking Wash aback. He’s already fumbling at his armor, removing the healing unit and passing it over before Wash can stop him. A faint look of pain crosses Tucker’s face, but he doesn’t take it back, waving the unit at Wash. “Just fucking do it, alright?”

He should argue, insist that Tucker needs it more, but then his eyes flick to Locus’ face. His eyes are tight shut now, his breathing rough and uneven. There’s no telling what those bullets could’ve hit without getting him completely out of his armor, and they can’t stay here for long. It’s only a matter of time before Felix or Price get all of Chorus headed after them. 

Wash takes the healing unit and fixes it into place. Tucker mutters at himself, probably arguing with Epsilon in his head. No surprises there, Wash can’t imagine Epsilon being any happier with the situation than him. At least Locus doesn’t have Freelancer’s neural implants, so the storage unit is the only option. What would Epsilon even find if he took a trip into Locus’ head? 

There’s a soft static sound and Epsilon’s hologram flickers into being atop Locus’ helmet. “I hate this.”

“I know, but the sooner the healing unit does it’s job the sooner you can leave,” Wash says, tone carefully even. The complicated emotions warring for control are best forced down as far as he can get them for the moment. “How bad is it?”

“He’s pretty fucked up. His lungs are alright, but there’s a whole lot of blood inside where it shouldn’t be. I’m gonna get that patched up and do what I can to kick start new blood flowing, but I dunno, Wash.”

Sighing, Wash glances to Tucker, who looks as though he’s doing his best to chew a hole through his lip. “Do what you can for him. We’ll keep moving. I think Carolina scavenged some medical equipment.”

He doesn’t know if any of it’s going to help though. Wash takes a breath. He has to trust Epsilon here. “Tucker, let’s get moving.”

“Yeah, alright. Lemme know if he kicks it.” His tone is too flippant, not quite covering the worry there. Tucker turns around, sinking back into the driver’s seat. The jeep starts up again, a little slower now. 

Locus hisses through gritted teeth, one hand pressing to his ribs. Epsilon’s tiny figure crosses his arms. “Oh suck it up, you big baby. I’m helping you, so I don’t wanna hear it.” 

Cracking open one eye, Locus glances at the hologram then up at Wash. “Why?”

That’s a great question. It’s one that Wash sort of wants to ask Tucker, but a glance at the back of his head makes it seem pretty clear that that isn’t the best idea right now. So Wash just shrugs at Locus. “Does it matter? Just try to stay still.”

Locus keeps shifting, hissing and sucking in pained breaths every time he does, any time the car takes a turn a little too sharply or picks up speed. Blowing out a sigh, Wash moves closer, settling onto his knees before he pulls Locus’ head into his lap. “Get some rest.”

Wash doesn’t look at him to see what Locus’ face does in response, turning to watch the world go by. They still have several miles to go, and he’s sure that he’s not going to get any rest himself. The only thing to do is start thinking of what to do next. 

* * *

Carolina’s keeping watch when the jeep pulls to a stop outside the hideout. She seems to appear out of nowhere, even without her active camo, she’s never one to be caught if she doesn’t want to be. She moves to greet Tucker first, pulling him into a hug that catches him totally by surprise judging by how big his eyes get from what Wash can see of his face over Carolina’s shoulder. 

Wash doesn’t mean to listen in, but he catches something that sounds like, “--so glad you’re alive.”

Something like an apology follows that Tucker protests. They’re having a moment, he shouldn’t interrupt. Hearing any part of it seems wrong somehow, so Wash does his best to tune out, keeping his attention on Locus, who looks a little less like he’s about ready to stop breathing now. Epsilon’s been relaying his condition every ten minutes for the last several miles. Stable. Mostly. Which is probably the best they can hope for.

He’s still conscious, which Wash takes as a good sign, though clearly a little out of it when he glances around. “He’s not losing anymore blood,” Epsilon says, voice low, apparently not wanting to interrupt Carolina and Tucker’s moment either. “But you’re gonna want him to stay put for a while. If one of you could dig the bullets out, that’d be just fucking great, cause I can’t do a whole lot about those.”

Wash nods. “Once we get him inside, I’ll get on it. Is he good to move enough to get him inside?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Just don’t yank him around a whole bunch. I’m giving him a shit ton of painkillers right now, so he’s gonna be kinda out of it, the dude has a fucking high tolerance.”

That’s not much of a surprise with how big Locus is… and the amount of injuries Wash can guess he’s had before. “Did you tell him you were giving him painkillers?”

Epsilon scoffs, helmet moving like he’s rolling his eyes behind it. “You think he’d actually take them if I did? I might not know this guy super well, but I know when I’m looking at someone as stubborn as your ass.”

Wash wishes he could argue that. Thankfully, Carolina chooses that moment to look into the back of the jeep. “Tucker told me what happened. How bad is he?”

“Epsilon says we can move him, but we need to get the bullets out and patch him up properly inside. You help Tucker in and then come help me?” Wash glances over Locus, frowning. “I think between the two of us, we should be able to get him up.”

“Right.” Carolina nods and then moves to scoop Tucker up into her arms, ignoring all his protests about how his leg isn’t that bad. Although Wash can’t help but notice the way Tucker seems to curl rather comfortably in her arms. He can hardly blame Tucker, though. She’s more like a sister to him, but there’s no denying that Carolina has exceptionally nice arms. 

Locus shifts a little, pained expression flitting across his face before it’s quickly forced away. There’s a staticy sigh from Epsilon. Wash’s hands go to Locus’ shoulders, trying to find the fine line between keeping him still and holding him down. Because if Locus is disoriented and confused, the last thing Wash needs is to be mistaken for an enemy. “Hold on. Carolina’s coming right back. You’re going to be fine.”

Locus blinks up at him, eyes slightly unfocused. Wash can’t even tell if what he says registers. Carolina’s back in less than a minute. Carrying Locus between them is awkward for a couple reasons, the main one being that he’s a good bit taller than both of them. His feet drag on the ground and his head lolls forward, but he doesn’t fight them as Wash gets one arm over his shoulders and Carolina does the same. 

They get him inside. The hideout doesn’t have much in the way of decent furniture, but there’s a couple mostly intact mattresses here and there. Tucker’s already on one, bad leg stretched out as he fiddles with his sword. He looks up sharply as Carolina and Wash set Locus down, mostly trying to be careful. They’re both a little too stiff, not sure how to be anything close to gentle with someone like Locus. 

Tucker’s mattress creaks as he shifts over to the end of it. “He gonna make it?”

Wash eases Locus down, one hand on the back of his head as he carefully lies him back on the mattress. “I think so. Epsilon’s on it, but we’re not going to be able to move him for a while. You should stay put too, Tucker. Let me see your leg.”

There’s a huff, but Tucker doesn’t protest when Wash moves to crouch next to him and carefully removes the armor on his leg and rolls back the undersuit. There’s a lot of dried blood clinging to Tucker’s skin, but beneath that, the wound does look better. Wash strips his gloves off so he can touch it with careful hands. Tucker shivers a little beneath him and for a second, Wash is half tempted to get the rest of his armor off next. 

Not the time. Stay focused. 

“It’s looking better,” Wash says slowly, carefully examining the sutures. “How does it feel?”

Tucker shrugs. “I mean, it’s not great, but I’ve had way worse, dude.”

Was rolls his eyes, glad Tucker can’t see behind his helmet. He shakes his head and fixes the undersuit back into place. “But if you can’t walk, you can’t fight. We need you in one piece to stop this.”

For some reason, that makes Tucker frown and scoff as he turns away. “Right, just came to get because you needed me to save the day. Got it.”

Uh oh. Wash made a misstep here somewhere. He glances at Carolina, who seems to be doing her best to pretend not to listen where she’s sitting at the end of Locus’ mattress, the mercenary’s helmet in her lap, Epsilon hovering on top of it. Wash takes a breath. “You know that’s not the only reason, Tucker--”

“Forget it, I don’t really give a shit,” Tucker says, sounding like he most definitely gives several shits. “I’m tired. Wake me when you need me to save the fucking planet.”

And Tucker lays down, rolling to face the wall. Wash half reaches for him before he lets his hand fall back to his side. There’s a dozen things he should say, but goddamn it, he’s exhausted and his chest still aches and none of them need this right now. “Alright, get some rest.”

Straightening up, Wash stares at the wall, hands twitched at his sides. He doesn’t want to look at anyone. “I’m going to secure the perimeter, make sure we weren’t followed.”

He strides out of the room before anyone has a chance to stop him. 

* * *

No one’s followed them. It should be a relief, but Wash can’t bring himself to feel much of anything past the tight knot of anxiety and frustration in his chest. The sky is growing steadily darker overhead, the surrounding area calm and quiet, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Which is probably the worst place for him to be at the moment. 

It’s not that he doesn’t understand why Tucker’s pissed, but he has to know that’s not the only reason Wash went to rescue him. He has to. Haven’t they been through enough for him to prove that? Hasn’t he earned that level of trust?

Trust me, Tucker’s always saying, why can’t he just for once do the same? 

Wash shakes his head a little. That’s not fair. None of this is fair. And Tucker’s been on his own, trapped with mindless robots wearing his friends’ faces. It’s not too much for him to want a bit of comfort, a bit of a break before he has to get back on his feet to put everything back the way it should be. 

But there isn’t time for that. None of them have time to heal properly, they need to get this fixed and now and Tucker’s the only one that can. Once everything’s said and done, once they get everyone back in their right mind, he can apologize, or something. It shouldn’t matter why he went to save Tucker, the fact of the matter is that he did--they did, and he’s out and alive. That should be enough. 

The crunch of footsteps behind him pulls him out of his thoughts, hand halfway to his pistol before Carolina draws even with him. 

“Any trouble out here?” Her voice is even, casual, like they’re not about to have a  _ talk _ .

“No trouble, boss. I don’t think we were followed.” Wash falls easily into old habits., walking in step with Carolina around their temporary hideout. They’ll have to move soon, followed or not. The last thing they need is to get spotted with Tucker and Locus still off their feet.

“You’re not straining yourself, are you? I need you at one hundred percent, Wash,” Carolina says, but there’s a softness to her tone. She’s not trying to hide her concern, that’s nice in the weirdest way.

“I’m fine. Still a little sore,” he admits when her helmet swivels his way, judgement obvious even from behind her visor. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

For some reason, Carolina makes a noise like she’s about to laugh and shakes her head. “You and Tucker really are made for each other, aren’t you?”

Wash frowns a little. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

Not seeming the least bit sheepish about it, Carolina just shrugs. “It is and it isn’t. You’re both more than capable or being stubborn assholes when you want to be. I think it’s why you work so well together.”

“I’m not stubborn,” Wash says, lying. Carolina just laughs at him and he can’t really hold that against her, so he just sighs. “Did you really come out here just to talk about my relationship problems?”

“No. I also came to make sure those problems weren’t distracting you so much that you forgot what you’re supposed to be doing. Plus, if I stayed down there, I’d only get to listen to Epsilon whining about being stuck with Locus.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “Is it really that bad for him?”

“No, but he likes to complain,” Carolina says, voice unspeakably fond. “I think he liked getting to be back with you for a while, Tucker too. But he’s a little homesick. It’s been a lot of jumping around for him lately.”

“Is that what you are for him now? Home?” Wash doesn’t ask it unkindly. All his feelings aside, and there’s still plenty of those that are more than complicated, he knows that Epsilon should get to be somewhere, with someone he feels at home with. And that isn’t him anymore. He made himself alright with that a long time ago. 

Carolina shrugs and leaves it at that. “I didn’t really come up here to talk about me and Epsilon, Wash.”

Which probably means this conversation is about to take a turn that Wash would really prefer to detour around. He sighs. “If you’re going to tell me I need to talk to Tucker, I already know that. And I will, just… later. We have other things to worry about right now.”

“Don’t we always?” She isn’t wrong. No matter what they do or where they end up, it always seems like there’s always one crisis after another. Even when they get a bit of downtime, Wash is fairly sure neither of them ever truly trust it.

After a moment, Carolina sighs and comes to a stop, looking skyward. “You remember Freelancer, right? How we all started drifting?”

Wash stops beside her. “How could I forget?”

“I used to try to,” Carolina says slowly. “I tried to forget how we didn’t talk to each other, how if York had just… told me what he was doing--if either of us had thought to reach out. It’s always been easier to blame the Director, the Counselor, and I’m not saying we shouldn’t. But if we had taken the time to talk, to try to sort things out… I don’t know what might have gone differently.”

“What are you trying to say?” Wash asks, though he has a feeling he already knows. And he can’t say that she’s wrong there. Hadn’t he let Maine slip away? What had stopped him going to North or South with his plan?

“I’m saying that you’ve got a chance to not make the same mistake again.” Her tone is more stern than kind. Like she’s trying her hardest to offer advice instead of giving an order. Wash almost wishes she wouldn’t. He’s spent too much time wondering, dwelling--if someone could just tell him what to do…

Well, he’d almost certainly turn around and do the exact opposite. And Carolina probably knows that. 

Wash blows out a slow breath and glances back toward their temporary base. “I would if I knew what the problem was. Tucker’s being unreasonable.”

“Is he?” Carolina says it like she already knows the answer and Wash lets out a huff. When did she and Tucker get close enough for her to take his side? But she keeps going. “Think of what his last few days have been like, Wash. I don’t think wanting someone to be there for him now is too much to ask.”

“But I’m right here?” Wash stares at her. What is she talking about? He’s been there for Tucker, he’s there for him right now. Well, except the part where he stormed out of the base to avoid dealing with him. Alright, maybe that wasn’t his best move. Damn it, why does Carolina always have to be right?

“It’s not just being there physically, Wash.” Carolina sounds like she’s making a face. “You have to be… emotionally available.” 

“How?”

“If I knew, I would probably have a word for whatever it is I’m doing with Vanessa.” 

Wash blinks at her for a second before he makes the connection. Kimball. Shit. He hadn’t even thought to check on her. Damn it. Why is he the worst friend? 

Carolina’s looking off in the direction of Armonia and Wash has to fight down a wince. “I’m sure she’s alright, Carolina.”

“She is.” And Carolina’s voice is even and confident even as she lets out a sigh. “And she will be as long as Felix and Price need her. All of them will. It’s what comes after that that we need to worry about. You should get some rest. We’ll make a plan in the morning.”

“But--”

“Just go talk to your boyfriend, Wash,” she says, waving him off, a slight laugh in her voice as she continues on around the perimeter. For a moment, he debates following her, asking more advice, or just telling her that he should be the one on watches, which he knows she’ll shoot down an instant after he says it. 

So Wash squares his shoulders and heads back into the base. There’s soft voices in the room where he left Tucker and Locus that instantly stop as soon as his footsteps near the door. The door is half open. He takes a breath and slowly steps inside. 

Tucker’s still lying on his side, facing the wall, but Wash can tell without looking that he’s still awake, none of his usual soft, snuffly noises anywhere to be found. He moves to Locus’ mattress first, half to give himself time to think. Locus at least is definitely out. 

“Epsilon?” Wash keeps his voice low, not wanting to disturb him. Even asleep, Locus looks agitated, brow slightly pinched, probably grinding his teeth. 

Epsilon’s hologram flickers above his helmet. “Eh, don’t worry about him. He’s fucking out.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “Did you help with that?”

“Maybe.”

“Did he ask you to?”

“I don’t see how that’s important.” Epsilon shrugs, but he doesn't last long under Wash’s stare. “Look, if I didn’t, he was gonna try and keep himself up all fucking night. He needs to rest so I can put him back together, don’t fucking give me that.”

“I didn’t say anything.” But Wash can’t stop himself smirking behind his helmet. “Let me know if anything changes.”

“Yeah, will do.” And Epsilon flickers out, apparently giving him and Tucker a bit of alone time. Good. Perfect. They need that. 

If only Wash had a clue what to do to fill the silence. 

Sinking onto the edge of Tucker’s bed, Wash pulls off his helmet and sets it on the dust covered floor. He leaves the rest of his armor on. If they need to move fast, there’s not going to be time to gear up again. The mattress creaks under him as he lays on his back and starts counting the cracks in the ceiling.

He should say something. He just has no idea what. An apology sounds good, but he has no idea where to start with that. What is he supposed to be apologizing for? Hadn’t he already told Tucker he was sorry for leaving him there alone so long?

No… no that’s not the problem here. 

“It wasn’t just about the sword, you know,” he says softly. Locus can’t hear and Epsilon’s probably not going to butt in, although Wash is certain he’s still listening, but it still feels like the kind of conversation that should be whispered. “The second Locus said you might be trapped there alone--”

“I know.” Tucker huffs and the mattress shifts as he rolls onto his back. “I get it, dude. You’re not that much of an asshole. But even if you were, I shouldn’t be pissed. Who gives a fuck--gotta save the whole goddamn planet, right?”

Wash glances at him, but Tucker isn’t meeting his eyes. It’s hard to read his expression like this, with his eyes on the ceiling and his jaw set. “We do,” Wash says slowly, “but I also wanted to save you. I should’ve told you that.”

Tucker’s got one arm lying on the mattress between them. Slowly, Wash reaches for him, fingers lightly bumping at Tucker’s wrist. His hand doesn’t get knocked away, so he slowly slips his fingers down to curl around Tucker’s hand. They’re both still wearing gloves and he suddenly hates that. 

But then Tucker’s hand moves against his and for a second, Wash is sure he’s going to pull away, but he grabs at Wash’s hand, pulling it toward him as he links their fingers together, joined hands coming to rest on Tucker’s chest. “Nah. You didn’t have to. But it’s cool that you did.”

It’s a little difficult to move without pulling his hand out of Tucker’s, but Wash manages it, rolling onto his side as he shifts closer. He drops his head against Tucker’s shoulder. It’s not exactly comfortable, but there’s not really anyway to get comfortable snuggling someone in full armor. Tucker’s shoulder plate digs into Wash’s forehead and he’s pretty sure neither of them have showered in days, but he’s not moving. 

Tucker gets an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tight against his side. Their armor doesn’t quite fit together, clanking a little as they get as close as possible. 

“How bad was it?” Tucker asks softly. “The whole prisoner thing?”

“Not as bad as I expected,” Wash admits honestly. With everything that’s happened since, the temple, Armonia, there hasn’t been much time to dwell on it. “Felix was a nightmare, but I figured he would be.”

Tucker’s arm tightens around him and Wash feels his face press into his hair. “I’m gonna fucking kill him. Never should’ve let you do that shit alone.”

Wash lets out a breath and lets up his head, meeting Tucker’s eyes. “It was my choice, my stupid plan, Tucker. I knew the risks.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t fucking suck,” Tucker says, frowning. “And it sure as shit doesn’t mean I was ever gonna be okay with it.”

And Wash wants to right back against that, say that it doesn’t matter whether Tucker was okay with it or not. But it does. Because they’re a team. They’re partners. Tucker’s opinion matters more than anyone else’s has in a very long time. 

“I know. You were probably right not to be.” Wash lets out a breath and leans in a little, pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll tell you about it later. I… I don’t want to talk about it now. After we finish this.”

Tucker breathes out slow and nods a little, but not enough to nudge Wash away. “Yeah… yeah, alright.”

“And then you tell me what it was like being trapped in the city alone.” It seems like a fair trade to Wash, though Tucker makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like he disagrees.

“Dude, it wasn’t that bad--”

“Tucker.” Wash doesn’t believe that for a second. 

Tucker sighs. “Fine. Whatever. Can we just stop talking and make out now?”

“I haven’t brushed my teeth in a month, Tucker.”

“You think I give a fuck, dude?” Tucker snorts. “Just fucking c’mere.”

Wash is smiling a little as he lets Tucker pull him in and smash their lips together. They’re both exhausted, so it’s not much more than a clumsy press of lips, but Tucker is warm and real and his lips are chapped and bitten, but Wash doesn’t want it to end. Their joined hands split so Wash can get his fingers tangled in Tucker’s hair and Tucker gets his hand around the back of Wash’s neck, curling there in a way that makes Wash feel safer than he has since before he left Armonia weeks before.

They kiss lazily until Tucker’s yawning into his mouth. Pulling back a little, Wash nudges their noses together and tries to fight down a yawn of his own. “You should get some sleep.”

He expects protests, but Tucker just makes a vaguely displeased noise and curls in closer, looping his arms around Wash. “Mm, fine, but you better fucking stay here. Just got you back, asshole.”

Wash kisses his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Better fucking not.” Tucker shifts a little more, probably trying to get as comfortable as possible, tucked in tight against Wash’s side, head resting on his chest. The chest plate can’t possibly make a good pillow, but it’s not long before Tucker’s breathing evens out as he drifts off. 

Was does his best to keep his eyes open, but they’re already drooping. If he just rests for a bit, that should be alright. They have plans to make in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to confirm, it was Freckles that died last chapter and I still feel pretty bad about that. So here's something a little less painful! It's been nice getting back into writing more tuckington for this fic after that long pause. Anyway, thank you so much to everyone for the comments and kudos and I hope this chapter makes up for the last one a little!


	36. Voice Like Nails on a Chalkboard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Off screen torture

Wash wakes up with fingers gently moving through his hair, but they don’t pull away when he starts blinking at the world around him. The voices don’t stop either.

“--mobilizing, probably going to try to blockade the temple,” Carolina’s saying.

“Yeah, but I figure they’re gonna be kinda split, cause they don’t want us getting at Kimball or Doyle either.”

Wash shifts a little. His head is definitely on Tucker’s lap, the armor under his head not exactly the best pillow, a pointy corner digs into the back of his head a little. Glancing up, he finds Tucker looking down at him, a small smile on his face. “Mornin’ Wash.”

“Morning.” Wash reaches up and tries to gently brush Tucker’s hair back from his face, but he’s still about half asleep and just ends up lightly smacking his face a little. Tucker snorts and takes his hand.

“Me and Carolina are trying to plan shit, you wanna jump in here?”

Wash nods a little, looking up to find Carolina pacing the room. She looks agitated, but far less so than he’s seen her before. Her helmet’s abandoned near Wash’s, leaving it obvious that she looks about as tense as Wash suddenly feels.

“What have you worked out so far?” he asks, pushing himself up a little, though he stays close when Tucker keeps an arm around him. Honestly, he sort of appreciates that. Wash hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the casual affection.

“Pretty much just going through a list of the shit that’s definitely gonna get us killed if we try it,” Tucker says, leaning to rest his head on Wash’s shoulder.

Carolina’s face says that he isn’t too far off there. “The problem is that now they have to know we’re planning something. It’s not going to be much of a stretch from there for them to learn about Tucker’s key and what it can do.”

“So they’ll probably have guards around the temple.” Wash’s brow furrow. “And knowing Felix, he’ll probably pick people he knows we won’t want to fight.”

Seeing the others in Armonia had been difficult enough when the only goal was to avoid and evade. Having to actively fight against them to get somewhere… that’s another matter entirely. And with Price and Felix pulling their strings, they probably won’t go down without a fight.

“Right.” Carolina nods, expression grim. “The only option I can think of is distracting the forces at the temple long enough for Tucker to get inside and shut it down. But that’s going to leave him going up against Felix… and anyone else he might have in the temple alone.”

“I can totally take Felix. The guy isn’t half as good as he thinks he is,” Tucker says, rolling his eyes, but Wash knows him well enough to see past the bluster, especially with the way his hand drifts to rest over his stomach, right where familiar scars are hidden by his armor. Wash covers that hand with his own and gives a slight squeeze.

“One of us should go with you, just in case. That means less people running distraction, but… it’s better than you going in without any kind of backup.”

Carolina’s still frowning, but her head tips to one side as she seems to consider it. “That might be better. If we can get supplies… I know there’s a few old weapons caches that we never got a chance to raid. It depends what we find, but Locus and I might be able to handle the distraction ourselves.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “And how does Locus feel about being part of the distraction effort?”

He casts a glance over at Locus’ bed, realizing he’s been entirely silent throughout the exchange. Locus looks to still be sleeping, chest rising and falling evenly. Asleep like this, he looks almost peaceful. Epsilon must have him on some strong painkillers.

“How is he?” Wash asks, voice a bit lower.

“He should be alright. I got the bullets out earlier and Epsilon’s repairing the last of the damage. It might still be a while before he’s back at one hundred percent. That goes for both of you two too,” Carolina adds, giving them pointed looks.

Wash looks down sheepishly and he can see Tucker pout and cross his arms over his chest out of the corner of his eye. “Not like I meant to get all fucked up. You try running away from mindless zombies.”

“I think I’ll pass.” There’s a ghost of a smile on Carolina’s face as she pulls out a datapad. “I’m going to make a list of what we’ll need. I want to be moving toward the weapons caches before noon. The sooner we know what kind of supplies we have to work with, the better. I’m going to check the perimeter again. You two try to be ready to move… and see if you can get Locus up.”

Wash nods. “Got it boss.”

He pushes himself to his feet as Carolina heads out. Turning to Tucker, he glances over him, frowning at his leg. “How’s the injury? Do you think you can walk on that leg?”

Tucker looks down at himself and shrugs. “No clue. It feels… kind of okay. I could probably walk a little, but I don’t wanna push my luck right now, dude.”

Frowning, Wash watches as Tucker blows out a long breath and drags his hands down his face. He drops to a crouch next to Tucker and lightly taps at his knee. “Hey, talk to me. Is there something else going on?”

Snorting, Tucker looks at him flatly. “Wash, did you miss all of the everything that’s happening? Look, I know you and Carolina can just like… shut down and go into super soldier mode when you need to, but I’m not quite there yet.”

Wash wants to protest, but Tucker isn’t exactly wrong. It’s easier to fall back into old habits, now more than ever. He can see Carolina doing it to. Just shut down everything else, focus on the task at hand, only on the mission. Everything else can come later once the mission is taken care of.

“That’s not a bad thing, Tucker,” Wash can see his mouth opening to disagree, so he keeps going, “no, listen to me. It’s good. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Carolina and I aren’t exactly… in touch with our emotions. Sometimes I really envy you, you know? She and I are built for this--well, maybe not this specifically, but you know what I mean. Once everything’s said and done though… we’re a little lost.”

Tucker makes a face, scrunching up his nose, looking like he still wants to argue before he blows out a breath and deflates a little. Reaching up, he cups Wash’s face with both hands. His gloves are gone and the warmth of his skin seeps into Wash. “Wash, I love you, but saying stupid shit like that makes me wanna punch you in the dick.”

The world sort of stops for Wash after those first four words. He blinks a few times and almost reaches to pinch himself. That just happened. Tucker just said that. He just did it. No prompting, no big, romantic moment. He just said it, easy as anything.

Wash feels warm like he hasn’t in years. For all he knows, he could be sitting on a cloud right now, the rest of the planet a million miles away.

Slowly, he reaches up and his hands curl around Tucker’s wrists, holding his hands in place. “Say that again.”

“What? That I wanna punch you in the dick?” Tucker cocks an eyebrow at him and Wash huffs.

“No, the other part.”

Tucker blinks at him, then the corners of his mouth tick up a little bit. “I love you? Dude, c’mon, it’s not like that’s news. Are you gonna get all weird about the ‘L word’?”

“No, it’s just… it’s nice to hear you say it.” And he leans in, kissing Tucker slow and soft. Wash is pretty sure Tucker laughs against his lips a little, but then they move against his own. He drags his tongue lightly over Tucker’s lower lip, and feels more than a little pleased with himself when Tucker shivers and sucks in a sharp breath through his nose.

There’s a soft noise Wash is half sure he imagines and he pulls back. Eyes cutting to the other mattress, he finds Locus as motionless as ever, though his face looks maybe a tad less peaceful.

He looks back to Tucker as he gives his hands a squeeze. “I love you too.”

Tucker snorts and rolls his eyes, but that doesn’t stop him smiling. “Yeah, no shit, Wash. You’re not as subtle as you think you are, babe.”

Another noise cuts through the air, this time loud enough that Wash knows it’s not just in his head, but it doesn’t come from Locus, but the wall behind him. Wash winces as Tucker looks to the wall, eyebrows rising. “The fuck was that?”

“Doc, probably.” Wash sighs and drags a hand through his hair as he straightens up. “I should go check on him. He’s… in pretty bad shape right now.”

He had only briefly mentioned what happened with Doc being used to activate the temple back in the city, just giving the details he had been told himself and sort of glossing over the other parts. Tucker hadn’t needed to know all of it at the time, but now…

“I should probably go check on him,” Wash says, staying exactly where he is and not making any move to head around the corner and into the other room. He just needs to mentally prepare a little, try to figure out a few simple, comforting things to say.

Yeah, he’s got nothing.

But then Tucker rises with a slight groan, grabbing Wash’s arm to steady himself. “I’ll go check on him.”

Wash frowns. “It’s alright, Tucker, I can--”

“No, dude.” Tucker shakes his head, looking a little pained, though Wash is fairly sure that’s got nothing to do with his leg, which thankfully looks to be supporting him fairly well now. “I didn’t go looking for him either. I gotta… I gotta see how bad it is. I kinda owe the guy for helping me with Junior.”

Tucker’s hand drifts to his stomach and Wash wants to ask, but doesn’t. He knows some details about Tucker’s son, but as far as the actual… biology of how that happened, he’s pretty sure he’s alright with not knowing.

So he just nods and squeezes Tucker’s shoulder. He watches carefully as Tucker heads for Doc’s room, more to make sure his leg doesn’t give out, but it seems like he manages and Wash hears the door open and close around the corner. If he really wanted to, he could probably listen in, but that seems like something best left alone. And Wash is fairly sure there’s someone else he needs to deal with at the moment.

He walks over to Locus’ mattress and sinks down onto it as he pulls his canteen from his hip and drops it onto Locus’ chest. “You should drink that. Don’t need you getting dehydrated.”

There’s a slight pause, almost one long enough to be convincing, but then Locus’ eyes flick open as he looks up at Wash, then the canteen. “I have my own.”

His voice sounds rough, though not as bad as Wash expects. Blowing out a breath, he looks away, staring at the opposite wall. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long.” Wash is pretty sure from the tone of his voice that it’s been long enough for Locus to see a few things he didn’t want to.

The mattress shifts as Locus pulls himself up and takes a long drink from Wash’s canteen. It feels like he should say something, but he has no idea what. Wash isn’t about to apologize for whatever Locus saw. He doesn’t owe him anything. Whatever Locus thinks their relationship is, Wash isn’t going to bend over backwards to make him happy.

But he does owe him something. A thank you at least for the day before, for Tucker.

That isn’t what comes out when he tries though. “Why did you do that? Take those bullets for Tucker, I mean. I know you don't’ care about saving this place.”

Locus says nothing for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the floor, but Wash sees his hands tense on the canteen. “He’s important to you. And Felix, in a way. And I’m tired of killing and letting people die.”

Wash doesn’t argue that, because Locus sounds it. Hell, even at his worst, Wash is pretty sure he never sounded like that, the bone deep exhaustion looking like it might be physically weighing Locus down. It occurs to him then that he has no idea how old Locus is. Wash guesses that he’s older than he is, probably in his forties, maybe even older, but just then, it looks as though he’s lived for centuries.

This seems like the part where he should offer some kind of comfort, but Wash doesn’t know where to begin with that. And he sort of doesn’t want to. In some ways, he knows he owes Locus at least… something for saving Tucker. If he were a more forgiving person, he might feel more in his debt, but he isn’t, so he doesn’t.

He blows out a breath and drags a hand through his hair. “I can understand that. Well, whatever you did it for, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do if…”

Wash can’t finish the sentence.

Locus’ shoulders rise in a slight shrug and it’s the most human thing he’s seen Locus do. “You owe me nothing, Agent Washington. My only goal now is to stop the damage I’ve helped do before it gets any worse. There’s already been too much death on this planet.”

There’s certainly no arguing that, so Wash nods. He rises slowly and shakes his head when Locus tries to hand back the canteen. “You finish that. Are you feeling up to moving? Carolina’s found a weapons cache and she wants us ready to go soon.”

Frowning a little, Locus looks down at himself. His chest armor’s been removed and neatly stacked next to his mattress, probably Carolina’s doing when she removed the bullets. There’s till holes and blood stains marking the places they managed to get around his armor. He pats at himself a little and slowly nods. “I should be alright,” he says, brow furrowing. “I should be in much more pain right now…”

Epsilon takes that moment to flicker into being above Locus’ helmet. “Yeah, that would be thanks to me. You’re welcome, jackass.”

Locus stares at the hologram, one eyebrow rising. “I didn’t ask for your help, so I see no reason to thank you for it.”

Wash bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh at Epsilon’s ranting and spluttering, that seems to have absolutely no effect on Locus, who just blinks at him and crosses his arms over his chest when Epsilon starts screeching. Maybe after dealing with Felix for years, he’s just numb to that kind of thing.

“Let me know if you need help getting your armor back on,” Wash says, glancing down the hall as the door to Doc’s room opens.

Locus nods, but Wash is pretty sure they both know that he won’t be asking for any help with anything from him. So Wash leaves him be, getting a few feet away from Epsilon’s shrieking to join Tucker in the hallway. He looks  a little unsteady and shoots Wash a thin smile as he leans against the wall.

Wash puts a hand on his shoulder, eyes flicking over his face. “How was he?”

Tucker shrugs. “No fucking clue. Jesus, I knew it was gonna be bad, but… holy fucking shit.”

He drags his hands over his face and Wash inches closer, getting an arm around him. “I know. He didn’t even recognize me.”

“Fuck.” Tucker shakes his head a little as his hands fall back to his sides. He leans to press his forehead to Wash’s shoulder. “I think he… sort of knew me. Maybe. He didn’t at first, but I showed him the scars from where he helped with Junior and I think he kind of remembered. He was mostly just babbling. What the fuck are we gonna do with him?”

Washs lets out a breath. “I have no idea. There’s not much we _can_ do for him right now. Once we fix the rest of the planet, we can get him to Dr. Grey, but beyond that… I think all that we can do is keep him safe and make sure he knows that he’s with friends.”

“This fucking sucks.” Tucker lifts his head up and pushes himself away from Wash, pacing a few steps up and down the hallway. He slaps at the wall and curses again before he takes a breath. “Alright. Yeah… yeah the sooner we fix this shit, the sooner Doc’s gonna be okay.”

And Wash just nods, because Tucker doesn’t need to hear that he doesn’t think Doc’s ever going to be okay again.

* * *

After some debate on the matter, the healing unit goes back to Tucker on the ride to the weapons cache. Wash ends up in the back of the jeep with Doc. There’s even more debate that eventually ends with Tucker driving and Locus sitting next to him, while Carolina leads the way on a motorcycle.

She’s right, the cache isn’t far. Locus tenses a little as they approach, scanning the horizon for enemies. Tucker’s got his hands tight on the wheel and his eyes straight ahead, but he definitely notices. “See anything?”

“No. I doubt there will be any guards here. The pirates kept this cache mainly for themselves. Felix and I rarely cared about the smaller ones.” But Locus stays on guard until they pull to a stop behind an outcropping of rocks.

The cache is hidden in what was probably a small town built at the base of a mountain. Or that’s most likely where the town was before the pirates brought most of the mountain down on top of it. There’s a few half destroyed buildings still doing their best to stand, but there’s mostly just a lot of rocks. But the town isn’t important, it’s what’s under it they’re looking for.

“A couple of Kimball’s scouts found this place ages ago,” Carolina says as they wait for Epsilon to finish scanning the area for life. “Apparently the people who lived here were fond of storm shelters. There’s a few big ones that the pirates loaded up with guns and ammo. We need to do a thorough search and figure out what we have to work with before planning the next phase of attack.”

Wash nods almost automatically, and he sees Locus do the same out of the corner of his eye. Of course he and Carolina aren’t the only ones who do better working with orders.

Tucker’s borrowing Wash’s helmet again so Epsilon has a way to project himself. The hologram appears just over Tucker’s shoulder. “Alright, looks like we’re clear. The pirates didn’t leave a whole lot above ground, just some old radios. I can tell where the entrances to the cellars are, but I can’t really get a read on any traps on the doors from here.”

Carolina nods. “Give me a map of the exact locations. Epsilon, I want to you switch back to Locus for now. Tucker stay with the jeep and--”

“No fucking way.” Tucker crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not just gonna sit on my ass over here and wait for you.”

Sighing, Carolina glances to Wash for back up. “Tucker--”

But he puts his foot down. After probably too much bickering, they all head in. Wash keeps Doc close, holding his hand to make sure he doesn’t wander off. He doesn’t try to. Though he still doesn’t seem to know who Wash is, he sticks close, mumbling and giggling softly to himself.

There’s a few buildings that are still half standing that Carolina and Locus search through first, just to make sure Epsilon missed nothing on his scan. But as he said, there’s just a few bits of old equipment left here and there and a radio loudly broadcasting static sitting on an empty ammo crate. The crate is just beside a hidden trap door. Carolina holds up a hand and motions for Locus to follow her up. Epsilon’s hologram flickers at Locus’ shoulder. “There’s a trip wire on the other side attached to some kind of bomb on the wall. Just skip the third step and you’ll be fine.”

Carolina nods and gets the door open. She and Locus head out, leaving Wash and Tucker on watch. The area isn’t too open. Even if someone was to try to advance on their position, there’s plenty of fallen rock and bits of old buildings to hide behind.

Wash leads Doc over to the crate and sits him down next to it, crouching in front of him. “Hey buddy, just sit here for a bit okay?”

Doc nods, looking at a point a little to the left of Wash’s face. Then he glances at the radio and winces. “He wants to get in.”

That sounds like it should mean something, but Wash doesn’t have a clue what, so he looks over at Tucker. Confusion flits across Tucker’s face too, then he smacks at his own forehead. “The radio, that’s--you remember that shitty asshole AI? Omega or whatever? It jumped around using the radio, the static’s probably freaking him out.”

“Right.” Wash feels like he should know that. He remembers… ages ago, when he was a different person, Doc telling him he’d had the Omega AI. That should’ve been obvious.

Reaching for the radio, he carefully turns down the dial, the static growing quieter. Doc lets out a breath, the tension easing away from his shoulders. He reaches up and lightly pats Wash’s arm, mumbling something about orange juice.

Wash gives his hand a squeeze and straightens up, moving to peer down the stairs beyond the trap door. “Find anything yet?”

Carolina steps into view, a crate in her arms. “It’s mostly ammo, but there’s plenty of stun grenades down here, and a couple suits of armor. Tucker, how do you feel about a pirate helmet?”

“Find me a cool one,” Tucker calls down, having moved to stand at Wash’s shoulder. 

“Will do. We’re doing a quick inventory before we start bringing stuff up. No point in moving the stuff we don’t need. You got any movement up there?”

Wash shakes his head. “Nothing yet, boss.”

“Alright, keep an eye out. This shouldn’t take too much longer,” she calls up, before stepping back into the cellar. There’s the soft sound of moving crates and shifting ammunition and Carolina’s voice drifts up in snippets, listing off supplies, probably to Epsilon or Locus.

Wash takes a few steps back and scans the horizon again. Still nothing. It feels off somehow. They got away from Armonia, and now they’ve found a stash of weapons just sitting here unguarded like it was waiting for them. Maybe that’s the paranoia talking. He’s probably overthinking it. If Felix and Price were going to spring a surprise attack, they would’ve done it back at the other base, not after they got their hands on a pile of weapons.

He walks the perimeter a few times as Locus and Carolina start bringing things up. There’s not quite the treasure trove they had been hoping for, but there’s still a fair amount to work with. After sorting through the little pile of helmets Carolina had brought him, Tucker settles on one with a slightly slimmer visor than his old one, but it’s got small streaks of blue along the sides, which Wash is pretty sure is the main reason he picks it.

Carolina and Locus are still discussing options--she’s aiming for a bigger distraction to draw the army away, while Locus is more convinced finding a way to immobilize Felix’s forces would work better--when a voice starts playing over the radio.

Wash doesn’t even notice it until Tucker goes completely still. He’s halfway to asking him what’s wrong when Tucker holds up a hand. “Hold on, Locus shut up--”

He turns up the radio and Wash holds his breath.

_“--lo? Hello? This is Lieutenant Palomo broadcasting on all channels? Can anyone read me? Captain Tucker? Is that you? Are you there?”_

Wash is sure he and Locus both realize what’s happening a second before it does and they both lunge. Locus catches Tucker around the middle and hauls him back as Wash yanks the radio out of his reach, quickly checking it over. It’s just broadcasting, not transmitting. They’re still safe.

Tucker squirms and thrashes in Locus’ arms. “Get the fuck off me! Palomo? Palomo, can you hear me?!”

Locus starts trying to drag him back from the radio, Tucker’s kicking feet knocking up clouds of dust and scattering rocks everywhere.

“Captain, you’re going to give away our position,” Locus says, sounding remarkably composed for someone who’s definitely getting punched in the bullet wounds right now. “You need to remain calm, it’s a trap.”

_“Captain Tucker,_ ” Palomo’s voice calls again, there’s something off about it, not his tone but the quality.

Wash’s brow furrows. “I think it’s just a recording. Tucker, he’s not--”

But the radio keeps going. _“Tucker--Captain please, I don’t know where I am. I just woke up here and there was--there was this radio and it’s so dark and I--no. No, no, no, wait! Stop! Please!”_

And Palomo’s screams cut through Wash’s nerves like glass. It takes all his willpower not to jump the radio in alarm. Tucker yells for Palomo, but he can’t get free of Locus’ grip. It’s not like that would do either of them any good anyway.

The screaming stops, replaced by a horribly familiar laugh. _“Ah, isn’t that a shame,”_ says Felix. _“Oh don’t worry about the kid, he’s still breathing. For now. Can’t have you lose your whole squad, now can I?”_

“Felix,” Tucker bites out the name through gritted teeth. He’s not struggling anymore, but he holds at Locus’ arms, as if trying to hold back from grabbing the radio himself.

_“Now, I don’t know if you’re even hearing this message, which is why I’ve got it looping on every channel I can get at, so you can just play that first part back if you missed anything. My favorite part was the screaming.”_ There’s a few odd noises in the background, heavy footfalls maybe, something dragging over the dirt. _“But, if you just so happen upon any of those nice little weapon caches we left out there for you, you’ll probably hear this sooner or later. Sooner would definitely be better for poor little Charlie, now don’t you think?”_

Wash is half tempted to smash the radio against the ground, but he doesn’t. It’s like he can’t move, frozen with anticipation. Locus, Carolina, and Tucker have all gone still too. The only one moving is Doc, on the ground where he trembles, hands pressed to his ears.

_“So, here’s what’s gonna happen,”_ Felix says, voice crackling over the radio. _“We know you’ve got the sword, and Price just decided to tell me exactly what you think you can do with it. Now, I don’t want any of you getting any wacky ideas about using that to stop us, cause if you even try, I’ll kill all your friends and then you. And I’m gonna make it nice and slow. So what I want is for Tucker, just Tucker, to come by the temple and drop off his sword. If he does, I’ve got a nice little ship waiting to take him and the Freelancers and your three favorite Reds and Blues off this rock. You get three, cause I’m feeling generous. And then you leave Locus and the rest of this piece of shit planet to me.”_

There’s a long, dramatic pause. For a second, Wash thinks that the recording’s over, but then Felix goes on.

_“Still with me? Good. Cause I’m not in a great mood, so for every day you keep me waiting, I’m gonna start carving my way through another one of your friends. I’ve even got Caboose waiting in the wings for his turn. How long do you think he’s gonna last? I know he’s a big guy, but even he’s gotta run out of blood sometime, doesn’t he? I sure hope it takes a while. I’ve been wanting a new toy to play with, the last one broke so easy.”_

On the ground, Doc whimpers and curls in on himself.

_“So, that’s the deal, Tucker.”_ Felix’s voice is sharper now, no nonsense. _“You bring me your sword and you do it soon, or you’re not gonna have anyone left to even try to save.”_

And the radio goes quiet, static slowly rising to fill the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's stuck with me this long. We're about a chapter off from the final arc of this story. The next chapter is one that I've been looking forward to for a while, so I really hope you guys like it. I'm so excited to be getting into the home stretch here!


	37. What You Made Me Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood, non-consensual kissing, character death

“It’s a trap,” Wash says. 

The radio is off and it’s a miracle it’s not in a million pieces after Carolina got to it. She’s listened to the recording three more times, several feet away from the rest of them after Tucker tried to put his sword through it. 

She’s pacing now, hands flexing and twitching. “Of course it’s a trap. There’s no way he’d just take the sword and let Tucker leave. He’ll try to find a way to take it for himself so no one can stop him.”

Wash casts a glance at Tucker. He’s sunk down, leaning against a large pile of rocks, Locus sitting at his side. Initially, he had moved with Tucker to stop him storming off, but now it looks as though the fight’s going out of Tucker and he’s sagged against Locus’ side. It would almost be amusing how stiff and straight that’s made Locus go in response if the situation was anything else. 

But now they’re on the clock. They need to make a plan and fast. 

Carolina drums her fingers on her arms. “I’m assuming there’s no chance Felix is bluffing?”

Tucker scoffs weakly, but Locus is the one she’s looking at. He shakes his head slowly. “Unlikely. Felix rarely makes threats he doesn’t intend to follow through on. I’m certain the only reason he hasn’t tried to send everyone on Chorus after us is that Price still has some measure of control over him.”

Nodding, Carolina glances toward Wash. “That sounds like Price. He still needs as many people alive here as he can get, he’s probably trying to minimize the collateral damage.”

Wash starts pacing, taking up where Carolina left off there. “Maybe there’s another temple we could get to and activate, something that could counteract this one. Locus, Price said that there were other temples you and the pirates had been examining trying to find this one. Maybe we could use one of those?”

Locus tips his head to one side. “It’s possible. I have no idea which would be effective here. Perhaps the Temple of Time? Price said that one wasn’t to be tampered with unless dire need called for it.”

“Well, this is starting feel pretty dire to me,” Wash says slowly, looking to Tucker and then Carolina. 

Pulling up a datapad, Carolina seems to be considering it at least. “If we can get ourselves there, it’s a possibility, but do we have any idea how this thing works? Or what we would need to do to activate it?”

Locus shakes his head. “Not as far as I know. Price had his theories, but those were ones he never shared with me or anyone else as far as I know.” 

Carolina curses under her breath, still looking at the map on her datapad. “I’ll still mark it off on the map. What about any of the others? I need a list of options here, now.”

For a moment, Locus starts to get up, but then he hesitates, glancing to Tucker, who’s still leaning against him. Wash isn’t actually ure if Tucker picks up on that, but he does choose that point to move, getting up and stretching. “Sounds like y’all have this handled. I’m gonna go walk the perimeter.”

Wash frowns and takes a half step toward him. “Tucker--”

“I just need a little bit to clear my head, alright? Just give me like… ten minutes. I’ll be right back, I swear.” He grips at Wash’s hand as he passes and starts walking through the rubble. There’s a twisting in Wash’s gut. 

Tucker probably does need space right now, some time to think, but he has a feeling that’s not what he’s doing. Wash looks over to where Carolina and Locus are pouring over a datapad together, probably trying to frantically plan as many contingencies as possible. Doc’s still sitting on the ground, his back pressed to the last wall of a crumbling building, he’s been very quiet since the radio message. Wash pauses to gently pat Doc’s shoulder before following after Tucker. 

* * *

It’s less than surprising when he finds Tucker at the vehicles, one let already thrown over Carolina’s motorcycle. He stops when he spots Wash, going still, obviously caught. Letting out a breath, Wash crosses his arms over his chest. 

“You weren’t even going to say anything before you left?” He should probably be talking Tucker down, telling them that there’s other ways, but honestly, Wash is beyond certain that if he were the one with the sword, he would be in the exact same spot. Except he probably would’ve taken the jeep so it’d be harder for anyone else to follow. 

Tucker sighs and drops his head forward. It’s odd looking at him with his new helmet, the dark gray looking a little out of place. “The fuck was I supposed to say, Wash? See you later, probably gonna go get my ass killed, don’t forget to change your socks?”

Wash approaches slowly, still half sure Tucker might try to peel out around him at any second, but he stays put long enough for Wash to draw up alongside him, covering the hand Tucker’s got on the motorcycle with one of his own. “There’s still time to try to make a plan. Locus and Carolina might be onto something.”

“Yeah, but if they’re not, Caboose is dead. Fuck, he might already be.” Tucker turns away, probably to glare into the distance. “We don’t even know when that message started playing. And you heard Palomo, he--”

Tucker cuts himself off with a pained noise and shakes his head. “He’s just a kid, Wash. And look, okay, say we fucking try to find another temple, every day we spend doing that is another day Felix gets to torture Caboose or Palomo or Grif--any of them. We don’t have time to fuck around with all this maybe crap. I’ve gotta go out there and just… fucking deal with this.”

Wash knows he should argue, but he can’t. Because he’s more than sure that Tucker’s right. Honestly, he doubts even Carolina or Locus truly think that they can find another better way in time to do anything. The count down is looming and Wash hates every second that goes by. They have to do something. 

“So you’re just going to go there and hand the sword over? Or what, you’re going to try to fight him?” Wash grabs Tucker by the arms, turning him so they’re facing each other. “If you go out there, you’re dead and that’s not helping anyone.”

“Well I sure as shit just can’t sit here on my ass!” Tucker snaps, but he doesn’t jerk away. 

“No, you can’t,” Wash agrees. “But you can’t go alone, either. I’m not letting you.”

“Wash--”

“I’m going with you.”

Tucker groans at him. “You’re not. Dude, you don’t even have a kick ass alien sword, and Felix said to come alone.”

“He also said that he’d let us off Chorus and I’m pretty sure we both know that was a lie. I’m not letting you deal with him alone.” 

“Whoa, you’re not  _ letting _ me? Since when did I ask for your fucking permission, Washington?” He knows that tone, Tucker’s trying to pick a fight, trying to prod at him until he refuses to come along. It’s just what Wash would do in his place.

Carolina was right, they really were made for each other. So fighting isn’t going to get him anywhere. 

Wash sucks in a breath and reaches up, hands resting on the sides of Tucker’s new helmet, wishing he could see his face. “Don’t make me let you go.”

Tucker stills. His hands come up to Wash’s arms and he can feel them shake even through thick layers of armor. “I can’t not go, Wash. If I don’t…”

“I know. I’m not asking you to stay, I just want to go with you.”

“Wash…” He can almost see Tucker struggling with it. “If Felix sees you, he’s gonna know I’m not there alone. You seriously wanna risk that?”

“I may be able to assist.” Locus’ voice comes out of nowhere and they both look around sharply as the invisibility drops away and his armor flickers into view. He pulls a chip from his armor then the glowing green healing unit and steps closer, holding both in one outstretched palm. 

Wash hesitates, slowly moving to take the chip. “Will this even work with my armor?”

“It should,” Locus says, nodding. He turns to Tucker gesturing with the healing unit. “If you really mean to fight Felix, you should do so with every possible advantage.”

That seems to convince Tucker, who takes it without hesitation, fixing it into place. He goes still for a second then shakes his head. “Welcome back asshole.”

Epsilon’s hologram flickers to life just in front of him. “You didn’t think you were going off on this stupid mission without me, did you?”

“Dude, what are you even gonna do? You’re just gonna scream at me the whole time.” But Tucker sounds as though he’s smiling behind his helmet.

Wash cocks his head to one side, eyeing Locus curiously. “Why help us? Your plans with Carolina--”

“Are as filled with flaws as yours.” Locus sighs heavily and shakes his head. “She is still working on options, but I doubt she truly believes any will work. Activating another temple poses too many risks and if you want to save your friends, you must move quickly.”

“If we die, Felix is going to know you helped us once he finds the invisibility enhancement. You lose any kind of plausible deniability.” 

It’s impossible to know where Locus is looking with his helmet, but Wash gets the distinct impression that he’s looking him right in the eye. “I’ve made my choice. Regardless of what happens, Felix isn’t going to let me off this planet alive. Carolina and I will run what distraction we can for you to attempt to divert their attention, but if you’re going, you need to go now.”

He isn’t wrong. The sooner they start moving, the better. If they take the motorcycle, they can make it to the temple before morning if Epsilon finds them the fastest route. This is their chance to end all of this. 

Wash takes a breath and nods. He should do something here. Thanking Locus seems as though it would fall flat, but anything more is far too much. So he offers his hand without a word. Locus looks at him for a minute before he clasps Wash’s wrist, letting him do the same. 

“Watch Carolina’s back,” Wash says instead of goodbye, but it feels like one anyway.

“Survive,” is all Locus says in return. It’s enough. 

“Jesus Christ, can you hurry up with the dramatics?” Epsilon’s screechy voice claws at Wash and he sighs. 

Tucker waves a hand through his hologram and hops onto the motorcycle. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on Wash, dude. He’s safe with me.”

For some reason, Locus nods firmly, seeming to take Tucker at his word. “That goes for you as well, Captain. You are not… wholly unpleasant to deal with.”

“Y’know what, I’ll take it.” Wash can hear the grin in Tucker’s voice and it’s definitely time to go. 

He gives Locus’ arm one last squeeze before dropp his hand away and moving to climb onto the back of the motorcycle. Looping an arm around Tucker, he takes a breath. This is it. Locus steps out of the way and the engine revs. 

Epsilon flickers out of view and sends a map to both their HUDS and they drive off into the night.

* * *

As expected, it takes only a few hours for the temple to come into sight. There’s no cover around for miles, so Wash activates the invisibility as soon as Epsilon warns that they’re in range of being spotted. The empty plains are strangely eerie. The light is low, the sun still a few hours from rising. Wash checks the invisibility every few seconds, making sure that it’s still running. 

“Do you have a plan for what you’re going to do once you get in there?” he hisses to Tucker. 

“I’ll figure something out.” 

So he’s going to wing it. Wash fights down a sigh. They should have talked about it, worked out something. Tucker’s decent at coming up with plans when he needs to. Despite all their protests, Wash has always found that all the Reds and Blues work better when they have a bit of a plan. But there’s no time now. He has to trust Tucker to make the right choices and not play right into Felix’s hands. 

There are no guards around the temple, but the pirates’ transport vehicle is less than a hundred yards away. It could be the same one Wash was brought there in when the temple was activated. In fact, the more he looks at it, the more sure of that he is. 

“Can Epsilon scan that for people?” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard over the engine. 

“Yeah, he’s working on it… looks like there’s some, all controlled by the temple though. And none of them are heading our way.”

Wash hopes that’s a good sign, but it only makes everything that much more ominous they approach the temple, utterly undisturbed. It’s not much of a surprise. Felix is expecting Tucker. He wants him there. Alone. In the strangest way, Wash wishes there were more of an obstacle to get past. That way it might feel a bit less like they’re walking into an obvious trap. 

Tucker doesn’t bother hiding the motorcycle. He pulls to a stop just in front of the temple. Careful not to bump into him, Wash follows as he gets off and approaches. It already feels like a mistake and Wash is half tempted to grab Tucker by the arm and yank him back toward the bike. 

The temple’s just as big as Wash remembers, but the stones look darker somehow. Probably just the dim lighting. That doesn’t explain the way the blue glow spreads over it like veins. They pulse a little, but they never go out, growing brighter and dimmer faster than Wash remembers, like it’s awake. 

There’s the sound of surging energy as Tucker lights up his sword and holds it toward the door. For a second, Wash doesn’t think it’s going to open, but then there’s a shifting sound that seems as though it’s coming from much deeper inside. And then the door slowly opens. 

Tucker steps in cautiously, sword held aloft. Wash slips in right after him, half sure the door will slam shut behind Tucker, but it closes just as slowly as it opened. The temple is brighter inside than it was before, the lights that were once softly glowing on the walls are now almost bright enough to blind. 

Turning in a slow circle, Tucker seems to take the temple in. 

“Felix?” His voice echoes around the entry chamber. “I’m here, asshole. Just like you wanted.”

There’s no response, not a verbal one at least. The lights in the room suddenly dim, leaving them in near darkness for a moment. Then one pulse of blue runs along a wall and down a sloping corridor. Down to the center of the temple, Wash is sure off it. That’s where Felix has to be. 

They should have talked more about this, should have made just… any kind of plan. But it’s too late now, and there’s no time to check and figure out if Felix has the whole place bugged. So all Wash can do is stay unseen and follow behind Tucker as quietly as possible. 

Pulses of light drifting along the ceiling and walls lead the way down the darkened corridor. It slowly slopes further and further down. For several minutes, there’s no sounds but their footsteps, though Wash does his best to keep his own nearly silent. Tucker rounds a corner and stops so suddenly that Wash almost crashes into his back. He nearly asks why he stops, but then he hears the voices. 

It’s faint, but as Tucker starts walking again, they get clearer, louder, and there’s no mistaking them. Felix and Price. Wash squints at the walls, trying to figure out where they’re coming from. It seems as though they should be toward one side, but the voices drift from the walls at random, louder here, quieter there, still impossible to make out exactly what they’re saying. But it doesn’t sound as though it’s a very pleasant talk. 

They get clearer when Tucker comes around another sharp corner. Along one wall is an open door that Wash knows instantly. The central chamber of the temple. Price and Felix’s voices drift from the opening. 

“--all your fault,” Felix is saying. “If you had told me about the sword--”

“The sword that you failed to mention to me? The sword I had no way of knowing about?” Price sounds as calm and collected as ever, though there’s something a bit strained about his voice, almost like he’s in pain. Somehow, that doesn’t feel like a good thing. 

“Hey! Don’t you fucking pin this on me, Price! This was your big scheme, I’m just the one doing your dirty work. If you’d like to help out with the torture and the searching of the entire goddamn planet, you can be my fucking guest!”

Tucker’s moving at the word ‘torture’ and Wash bites back a curse because he can’t yank him back without making noise, so he does the only thing he can and follows as Tucker charges into the chamber. 

It’s brighter than Wash remembers. The stone hanging from the ceiling is a bright, pulsing blue and almost looks as though it’s slowly turning in place. There’s new stone formations and what looks like projections of screens on the walls, moving footage that looks oddly like the view from the old helmet cams. Wash does a double take and bites at the inside of his lip, because he’s suddenly sure he knows just what those feeds mean. 

Felix stands on a new outcropping of glowing rock one hand outstretched toward the hanging rock formation in the center of the room. It’s not hard to figure out what he’s doing. On the far side of the room, two familiar sets of armor big Price to the temple wall, orange and maroon gauntlets gripping at his arms in a way that has to be painful, though Price keeps a straight face. 

Wash bites at the inside of his cheek to force down a noise of surprise. So much for that partnership. Maybe they aren’t doomed. 

“The fuck is going on in here?” And just like that, all eyes are on Tucker and the dread comes rushing back. 

Staying carefully quiet, Wash stays tight to the walls of the room, taking in every detail. There has to be something he can use, something he can do to help. 

Felix keeps his hand stretched toward the rock, but his posture changes, chest puffing up, instantly swaggering and confident. “Tucker, what a pleasant surprise. You sure took your sweet time, didn’t you? But y’know, I was thinking you’d at least wait a day before you broke. Sure shows what I know, huh?”

“Where the fuck is Palomo?” Tucker bites out the words. 

“Him? Oh, I dunno, probably somewhere down below,” Felix says, shrugging. “There’s so many rooms in the place, I know I left him around here somewhere. You can look for him if you want, but I doubt he’ll be up for talking much. They’re not very chatty like this, are they?”

He looks at Grif and Simmons, who are both bizarrely still and silent where they have Price pinned. “I tried making them talk, but if I want one to talk, they all start doing it and that’s just annoying. It’s pretty all or nothing here, but I think I’m making it work for me.” 

Felix’s fingers flex ever so slightly and Grif and Simmons drop Price, who sinks to his knees, breathing hard. The two of them turn in the same instant and march out of the room in a way they’re never moved before, too smooth for either of them. “Cool, right?” Felix sounds so pleased with himself. “I think I’m really starting to figure this place out.”

“Yeah, yeah, congratu-fucking-lations, asshole.” Tucker strides forward, brandishing his sword. “I’m here like you wanted, so just take the sword and let them go, alright?”

“Ooh, yeah, about that--” Felix shakes his head and the lights of the room pulse. “See, I made that deal before Price told me a fun little tidbit about how that fancy key of yours works. Apparently the only way to get it is for you to bite the big one. Sorry about that, buddy.”

Tucker tenses, ready for a fight. But Felix stays right where he is. Wash looks to the door, but no reinforcements come. The only person that moves is Price as he pushes himself to his feet. “My apologies, Captain Tucker.”

The worst thing about Price is the way he can almost sound like he means it. He almost looks regretful as he straightens out his shirt a little and moves to stand at one of the other strange rock outcroppings, he waves a hand over it and it glows. Before Wash can think, the door slams shut and he curses under his breath. 

“But you will not be leaving.” Price sighs, and it isn’t the sort of disappointed sigh Wash remembers. This might be the closest he’s ever seen the man to shame. “The deal wasn’t one we could uphold.”

“Eh, don’t get all broken up about it, Pricey.” Felix pulls a knife from his hip and tosses it into the air a few times. “He didn’t do what I told him to do either.”

Oh no. He knows. 

Tucker doesn’t flinch. “The fuck are you talking about? I’m here just like you said.”

“Yeah, I also said to come alone, didn’t I, Wash?” And the knife flies Wash’s way. 

He dives out of the way and the knife clatters against the wall behind him, but as he rights himself two more come his way. Wash dodges the first, but the second sinks into his armor on his upper arm, right where he’d implanted the chip. The invisibility flickers and he looks at his hands as they come back into view. Damn it. 

“Seriously, Wash, I’ve watched Locus use that since we got the damn thing working again. You really think I’m gonna fall for my partner’s own tricks?”

“He’s not your partner anymore, dipshit!” Tucker’s voice pulls Felix’s attention just in time for him to avoid getting his head sliced off. 

Ducking out of the way of the swipe, Felix jabs at Tucker’s legs, knocking him off balance. A second later, he’s back up and hooking an arm around Tucker’s neck, pulling him back against his chest as he yanks off his helmet and tosses it to the ground. “You just never learn, do you, Tucker?”

Wash moves, vaulting over the rock outcroppings and pulling his pistol from his hip. He’s at Price’s side in an instant, pressing the gun to his forehead. “Let him go, Felix.”

“You really think I care about him? Wash, if you pull that trigger, you’re gonna be doing me a huge favor. Seriously, I have no idea how the hell you put up with that motherfucker.” Felix snorts and just barely manages to avoid a wild swipe of Tucker’s sword. “Alright, you gotta cut that out.”

He jams a knife into Tucker’s shoulder and the sword slips from his hand, the blade flickering away as it clatters uselessly to the floor. No. It can’t go this wrong this quickly. It can’t. 

Tucker hisses and gasps, trying to yank Felix’s arm from his throat, but he gets nowhere fast. Felix laughs, the sound echoing around the room, searing itself into Wash’s mind. “Did you two idiots really think it would be that easy? I mean, I guess I could see it from Tucker, but I thought you were supposed to be smart, Wash. I guess I should thank you for coming all the way out here, saves me the trouble--” 

“Felix, don’t! Please.” Wash grits his teeth. He has nothing to offer. And there’s no way he can get a shot off from here without hitting Tucker. 

Felix laughs again as he looks at him. “Oh calm down. I’m not gonna kill him. That’s no fun. Nah, I’ve got a better idea.”

The arm not holding Tucker stretches out toward the glowing rock hanging from the ceiling. It grows almost too bright to look at for a moment and Tucker sucks in a sharp gasp, going rigid in Felix’s grip. 

“See, I’ve had a lot of time to play with this thing. And apparently Tucker’s so damn special I couldn’t get him the first time around. But it’s so, so much easier to get in his head when he’s up close and personal. So really, I meant it, thank you, Wash. You brought him right to me.”

Wash stares, eyes wide as horror settles over him. No. No no no.

Tucker’s face twists in pain and Wash can see his lips moving with muttered curses. His eyes shut tightly and he shakes and squirms in Felix’s grip. The hand Felix has stretched toward the rock turns and clenches and Wash hears him muttering from halfway across the room. He doesn’t sound happy. Maybe it’s not working. 

Wash moves, rushing forward, only to stagger back, nearly losing his footing when the stone pulses and  something hits his brain like a wave. Damn it. He clutches at his helmet, trying to shake off the dizziness, but it comes back again the second he tries to move closer. 

“It won’t let you interfere,” Price says behind him. Wash rounds on him, gun pointed at his face. 

“Why not?”

“The temple is linked to Felix and myself… him moreso. It responds to his wishes as long as we’re in control.” Price looks past him, where Tucker and Felix are still locked in a muted struggle. All Wash can do is watch. 

“What’s going on?” Wash jabs Price sharply with the pistol. “Is it not working?”

“I’m not sure.” Price doesn’t seem particularly concerned with the gun Wash is poking him with, his brow furrowed as he watches. “The readings had been unclear how the temple influences those with the keys. From what I gathered, it’s more difficult for the temple to fully control them, the longer they’ve been bound to the key, the more powerful a shield it creates.”

“What does that mean?” Wash doesn’t want to bring himself to hope. Maybe it won’t work. If Tucker’s sword can keep him safe--

“What have you observed of the others?” Price’s voice is the same one he would use during their sessions and Wash’s finger twitches toward the trigger. “The ones under the temple’s control.”

Wash grits his teeth. Of course Price would pick now of all times to lecture instead of just fucking explaining. “I don’t know? They’re mindless drones. It’s… it’s like they’re asleep.”

Price nods. “Indeed. That is the temple’s doing. It puts those it controls into a sleep like state to avoid disturbing their conscious mind. However, in this case… I believe the sword may prevent him losing consciousness when the temple takes hold.”

“So he’s going to be awake?” Dread claws at Wash’s stomach as he looks back at Tucker and Felix. 

The hand Felix has directed at the stone shakes and slowly closes into a fist and Tucker goes still, face suddenly going blank. Felix drops the arm holding him and Tucker stays right where he is. Shaking his head a little, Felix laughs. “About fucking time. Thought I was gonna have to start breaking his damn brain there.”

“Let him go, Felix!” Wash aims the gun his way, but nearly drops it before he can get his finger on the trigger as another pulse almost sends him to his knees, head aching. Damn it. 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” Felix loops his arms around Tucker’s waist and rests his head on his shoulder. Tucker’s face twitches, but he makes no attempt to move away. If Price is right, he’s still aware, he can see everything, feel everything as Felix pulls him close. “Thanks for bringing back my favorite toy. Well, second favorite, but I guess he’s gonna have to do. You think he’ll make a good Locus 2?” 

Wash feels like he’s about to be sick. He forces himself steady, taking a shaky step forward. “Tucker? Tucker can you hear me? You’ve gotta fight this, I know you can.”

“You can save it, Wash. I mean, he can definitely hear you, but you might as well save your breath. Or don’t actually, that might make this more fun.” Felix pulls off his helmet and lets it drop to the floor as he grabs Tucker by the chin, bringing them face to face. “I don’t think I can make him talk, but I’ll work that out later. I can make him do this though.”

Felix snaps his fingers at the rock outcropping and Tucker leans forward like a puppet on a string and brings their lips together. Wash hands curl into fists at his sides and he sees red as he rushes forward. The temple pulses and sends him staggering back. His head aches and the world around him swirls in and out of focus, but he pushes himself up again. He only gets a single step further before the temple pulses again and he sees everything in double as knives drive into his mind from behind his eyes. 

Breathing hard, he clutches at his helmet, trying to throw it off. Damn it. He’s going to tear Felix into pieces and set them on fire. Or maybe he’ll just hold him down so Tucker can do the honors. Because he’s getting him out of this. He can’t let it end here. Not like this. 

“Get off him,” Wash bites out between uneven breaths as he pushes himself again, nearly losing his footing. He just has to focus, just get his head on straight. 

Felix’s laugh cuts through the haze in his head and Wash wants to shudder in revulsion when he strokes Tucker’s face and cups his cheek. “I dunno, Wash, I kinda think he likes me like this. He does have a mark for me, after all. He’s supposed to be mine. And since you took my old partner, I guess I just have to take yours. That makes it all fair, right?”

Wash’s jaw clenches as Felix turns his attention back to Tucker, gripping at his jaw in a way that has to hurt. “Hey, Tucker, I need you to do something for me. Go kill Wash, alright? Make it fast, I don’t have all day.”

Tucker’s face twitches again, but he turns when Felix lets him go. Walking robotically, Tucker picks his sword up from the floor and ignites the blade, the light illuminating his eyes in a way that makes it look like he’s trying to scream. But he doesn’t say a word as he starts toward Wash, each step heavy and slow. Shit. He’s not stopping. 

Wash gets to his feet and takes a slow step back. “Tucker, you don’t want to do this--”

“Yeah, he doesn’t really have a choice though,” Felix calls. He smiles wide enough to split his face, puffed up and proud as he watches Tucker advance. 

There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. But he can’t fight him. So Wash leaps out of the way when Tucker’s sword nearly takes his arm off. Damn it. 

“Tucker, you need to listen to me. You can fight this.” Wash curses as he ducks under another swipe and rolls backward. He hits the wall and looks up just in time to throw up his arms and catch Tucker’s wrist, stopping the sword from slicing through his helmet by inches.

He forces Tucker’s hand away and quickly scrambles up, shifting to the side just as the sword sears the temple wall, leaving a great dark burn behind. Wash glances over his shoulder. He’s running out of room. Darting back to avoid another slash, he nearly topples over a waist high outcropping. “Tucker, please--”

Tucker lunges and he catches him by the arms, leaning back farther than he wants to, trying to keep the sword from burning its way into his shoulder. There’s nowhere to go and he topples back, Tucker coming with him. Wash’s back hits the floor hard and he barely manages to shift out of the way just in time for the blade to burn into the smooth stone beside his head. Above him, Tucker’s eyes are pained. Veins stand out in his neck, his jaw clenched tight, every inch of him shaking. 

“Stop me.” The words are barely more than a breath, hissed out between gritted teeth. “Wash, I can’t--don’t let me hurt you.”

“I’m not hurting you either.” Wash can’t fight back here. He won’t. This isn’t Tucker’s fault. “You have to break his control. I know you can.”

Tucker shifts and strains, pained, choked off noises punching their way out of him as his head twists, like he’s physically trying to get away from the temple’s pull. Then suddenly he goes still and takes a shuddering breath that seems to go through his whole body as his eyes fall shut. 

“Tucker?” Fuck, what does that mean?

Tucker’s eyes open and his face is blank. He stands up, sword dangling from his hand as he pulls a pistol from his hip and fires two shots. 

The floor beside Wash’s head smokes. 

“Stay down.” He barely hears it, Tucker’s lips moving only the tiniest fraction before he turns away and climbs over the outcropping. Across the room, he hears Felix bringing his hands together in a dramatic slow clap. 

“Nice work, Tucker. I thought that would take way longer.” Wash can’t see him, but it sounds like there’s footsteps moving toward each other. Then they stop. “Now I know you’ve gotta be pissed in there now, but you’ll get over it eventually. After all, you’ve got me now. What more could you want?”

Wash shouldn’t look. He needs to stay put, don’t give them away. But fuck he wants to know what’s happening. There’s a very soft, wet sound. Then Tucker’s sword activates and Felix chokes on his own blood. 

Damn it. Wash pushes himself up as Tucker makes a sharp noise of pain and Felix goes limp in his arms, sword glowing where it protrudes from his back. Tucker starts to fall and Wash vaults the rock, catching him before he hits the ground. The sword fizzles away and Wash dumps Felix on the floor, pulling Tucker into his arms. 

“Tucker? What is it?” He can’t find any injuries and it doesn’t look like his leg is bleeding again. 

But Tucker shakes his head and presses a hand to his left side at the base of his ribs. Wash has seen him shirtless enough to know that’s where there’s always been a burnt orange mark curling over his skin. Oh god. Wash has felt marks burn away before, but he’s never been the one to get rid of them. Losing one at a distance had felt like someone was trying to carve the mark off his skin.

Tucker gapes and gasps like he can’t breathe, his other hand clutching at Wash’s arm tightly. Wash holds him close. “It’s alright. Tucker just breathe, you’re alright. Does it hurt?”

Eyes squeezing tight shut, Tucker nods. He claws at his side and Wash has to drag his hands away before he tries to get out of his under. “Tucker--Tucker stop, it’ll pass, just breathe.”

“I can’t--Wash, I can’t.” And Tucker lets out a bitten off scream and shakes and shakes. All Wash can do is hold him to his chest as the temple goes strangely still around them. 

It takes Wash several moments to notice it, but the lights are slowly growing a bit dimmer, pulsing slower. Tucker’s still trembling in his arms, so he can’t move as he looks over at Price. “What’s happening?”

“The temple needs a hand to guide it. Without Felix, someone else must step in or deactivate it.”

“I thought you said you were linked to it too.”

Price lets out a breath and nods. “I am, but I was never in sync with it the way Felix was. It’s rejected my attempts to gain greater control. Now that Felix is gone it may allow me to do so, but… past attempts have not ended well.”

Fuck. He has to… they have to do something. Tucker seems to be shaking a bit less, so Wash cups his face. “Tucker. Hey, listen to me. We need to shut down the temple now.”

Taking a few great, gulping breaths, Tucker nods. “Yeah… yeah. I’m good. Let’s shut it down.” 

But his voice is shaky and his legs are worse. Wash gets an arm tight around his waist and walks him up to the glowing outcropping in the center of the room. Tucker nearly stumbles, but his jaw is set as he holds his sword out toward the rock and waits. And waits. And it keeps glowing, steadily dimmer. 

“Uh… am I supposed to do something with it?” Tucker looks to Wash then across the room at Price. “Do I hit it with the sword?”

Price slowly moves a bit closer, brow furrowing as he stares at the rock. “I’m not certain. I know the sword is meant to act like a key and lock the temple once more, but… the writings were not clear on the specifics of how.”

“Well fuck.” Tucker shakes his sword at the rock and waves it through the air, but nothing happens.

Wash frowns, looking at Price. “What happens if we can’t shut it off?”

Price lets out a sigh, eyes shutting tightly. “The temple will go back to sleep for a hundred years… as will all the minds currently under its influence.”

“Fuck me.” Tucker groans and takes a step out of Wash’s grasp, just barely managing to stay upright. “That’s not fucking happening. Come on you stupid pile of rocks, listen to me. You don’t get to just conk the fuck out now.”

He flicks his wrist and the sword ignites. For a split second, Wash is sure the temple gets brighter, but it doesn’t last. 

Tucker lifts up his sword, frowning a little as he looks at the blade. He turns it sharply and a strange marking appears on the surface of the rock. It looks… almost like a keyhole. 

“How did you do that?” Wash tries to lean forward a little to get a better look. It can’t be an actual hole.

“I dunno, the sword just… I think it knows what to do.” He lines up the blade with the marking. 

“Tucker wait--”

But Tucker’s already lunged forward and embedded the sword deeply into the rock. The temple glows all around them, so bright it’s almost blinding. Wash throws up an arm in front of his eyes. Squinting he looks to Tucker. His face is screwed up in concentration as he slowly turns the sword, holding it with both shaking hands. “Fuck it’s… I can’t--”

Wash moves before he can think, chest pressing to Tucker’s back as he reaches around him, covering his hands with his own and holding them tight. He immediately feels the strain, the force pushing back and grits his teeth. The sword shifts and turns and Wash can feel the pulses coming off in waves now, nearly sending him tumbling back. But he bites his cheek until he tastes blood and keeps his hands firm. 

The sword turns and there’s a deep, echoing click from inside the stone. For a moment, every light in the temple goes out. Wash blinks in the darkness. He nearly turns to Price, desperate to know what they did wrong. But then, one by one, small, soft lights flicker back on. 

The stone pulses against, once. Then again and again. It’s not nearly as bright as before, nor as fast, the pulses slow and even, almost like the breath of someone sleeping deeply. 

“Did we do it?” Tucker sounds breathless as he finally drops his arms away, sword unlit, hanging limply from one hand, blood still running down his shouler. 

Wash turns sharply when voices echo beyond the door, then he freezes, eyes growing wide. He knows those voices. A smile slowly starts to spread across his face as the door is shoved open by someone massive wearing familiar blue armor. 

“Yeah, I think we did.” And those are all the words Wash can get out before Caboose scoops him and Tucker up into a bone crushing hug. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for all the kudos and the comments! I know last chapter's end had a lot of people upset, but hopefully this makes up for it! This is another moment I've had in mind for ages and was part of the reason why this story ended up becoming what it is now. I went back and forth a lot on whether or not to kill Felix here. He's such a good villain and I hate to lose him for that, but I think it had to be done. Anyway, I hope everyone likes this chapter and I can't wait to get into the last chunk of this fic!


	38. Come Away With a Great Little Story

To say things are a bit confusing after the temple shuts off is an understatement. Caboose, Grif, and Simmons are right there at ground zero along with a slightly battered, but still breathing Palomo, but everyone else is a little out of reach. After being threatened with one of Caboose’s hugs, Price reveals that many people have already been sent off to different locations around the planet to begin collecting resources to show Control, a sort of proof of purchase, apparently. 

Kimball and Doyle get in touch from Armonia. Both of them had apparently woken up in their offices, being guarded by an odd collection of their own people. Most people there seem fine, though rather confused and strangely exhausted, despite being sure they slept for days. 

They regroup with Carolina and Locus on their way back. Carolina punches Wash hard in the arm before pulling him in for a hug. “Just because leaving without goodbye is cool when I do it, that doesn’t mean you can get away with it too.”

He has to laugh at that and gives her another squeeze before drawing back. “I’m sorry. We should have left a note.”

“Yeah, you should have,” she says, sounding stern, but her expression softens a little as she shakes her head. “At least I was able to get it out of Locus where you were. He really has the worst pokerface.”

Wash snorts, nodding a little.

Beyond her, Locus is apparently being interrogated by the Reds and Blues judging by the looks of things. He looks more exhausted than nervous, judging by the sage of his shoulders. But then Wash’s brow furrows as he watches Tucker grab Locus by the arm and pull him away a little. Tucker hasn’t bothered retrieving his helmet, so Wash can see the guilt written all over his face. 

Oh no. 

“Uh Carolina, can you give me a minute?” And he ducks out of her arms and darts around her, quickly making his way over to what he’s sure is a deeply unpleasant conversation. 

They’re not far from the temple. The Reds and Caboose had arrived in a jeep that they didn’t remember and had been willing to tie Price up in the back while Tucker and Wash went back to their motocycle. They had just been on the outskirts of an emptied out settlement when Carolina nd Locus had arrived. 

Tucker pulls Locus back behind one of the still standing buildings. Wash sees the last bit of Locus disappear around the corner before pressing himself to the side of the house. 

“You felt it right?” Tucker says, blunt as ever. “Felix?”

Wash can almost picture the carefully composed look on Locus’ face. “I did. I take it you were responsible?”

“Yeah.” Tucker sounds regretful more than anything else, though not ashamed. “So like… if you wanna kick my ass, I get it, dude.”

“What is… why are you doing this? I am--was your enemy. As was Felix. You owe me nothing.” Locus makes a good point. Wash is particularly fond of the ‘owing Locus literally nothing’ opinion. 

“Yeah, but like… he was yours, right? And when he died… shit dude, I’ve never felt anything like that. I know it was worse cause… cause I was the one that did it. But it still fucking sucked. You’re not supposed to kill your soulmates.” There’s a heaviness to Tucker’s voice, a sharp, new pain. He had been immobilized by it, barely able to stand. It’s an unspoken rule. Wash has never needed the warning, everyone knows you don’t harm the people that mark you. 

Unless you have no choice. 

“Does it still hurt?” Locus’ voice is low, almost cautious. 

“Sort of. I don’t… I don’t really know. It mostly just--it feels wrong.” Tucker hadn’t mentioned any of that to Wash. Then again, there hasn’t been much time to talk. 

“It likely always will,” Locus says slowly, and Wash wishes he could see his face. “With time, it will fade, but… there’s an emptiness that lingers when you remove one of your own marks.”

“Have you ever…” Tucker trails off before asking the question that’s circling around in Wash’s head. He peeks around the corner and sees Tucker shaking his head. “Look, Felix was a piece of shit, but… he was still yours, so if you wanna like punch me in the face or something, I’ll give you a free shot. Just try not to break anything.”

Tucker shuts his eyes tight and seems to brace himself, but Locus doesn’t move, except to tip his head to the side. “I’m not going to hit you.”

“You sure?” Tucker opens one eye, looking like he doesn’t quite believe him. “Cause I know I’d definitely wanna kick the shit out of you if you killed Wash.”

Locus sighs and shakes his head. “Felix is--was a monster. He needed to be put down. I should have done it myself years ago, if I had… there might be a bit more of Chorus left to save.”

“Guess that’s a good point.” But Tucker looks uncomfortable as he says it, rubbing at the back of his neck. “So are you… okay?”

“Why do you care?” It’s a fair question, one Wash kind of wants to ask Tucker too.

Tucker shrugs. “Someone has to. Plus, you’ve kinda saved my ass a couple times now, so… I guess you’re trying to be less terrible or something. I don’t really know what your deal is.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” Locus says, sounding a little surprised with himself. 

Snorting, Tucker nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, you’re stuck with us till you figure it out. Gotta help us finish putting shit back together, yeah?”

“I suppose I might as well. It isn’t as though I have much choice in the matter.”

Tucker scoffs and Wash can see him roll his eyes. “Uh yeah, dude. You always have a choice. You’ve just finally started making some decent ones lately. But don’t let that go to your head. I still kinda think you’re an asshole.”

Locus ducks his head and for a split second, Wash thinks he might be laughing. “Fair enough. You know, I believe I understand now what it is Agent Washington sees in you.”

“You mean other than my sweet ass?”

Locus sighs and Wash almost echoes him. “Yes, other than that.”

“But you do think it’s nice, right? Dude, it’s cool if you’re into me, I get it. Most people are.” Tucker’s grinning, looking far too proud of himself as Locus makes an odd choking sound. 

“That’s not. I don’t--this conversation is over.” Wash ducks back behind the building as Locus turns on his heel and very quickly heads back over toward the rest of the group. 

Tucker’s doubled over laughing when Wash approaches and drops a hand onto his shoulder. “Having fun?”

The grin Tucker shoots him is only half as sheepish as it should be. “He’s just too easy to mess with. You saw that, right?”

“I did. And also the part before. That was… kind of you. To ask about him.” Although Wash still isn’t quite sure what Tucker did it.

Sobering up a little, Tucker shrugs. “Just what you do, y’know? Look, I’m not gonna lose sleep over Felix. But… shit, I dunno how long they’d been a thing. Even if they’re both complete freaks--I dunno, just seemed like the thing to do, I guess.”

“Right.” And Wash knows exactly why he doesn’t have those kinds of instincts anymore, if he ever did. But Tucker still manages to care about everyone he comes across, even Locus apparently. His eyes flick over Tucker and his brow furrows. “You didn’t tell me the mark still hurt.”

Tucker makes a face and shrugs. “It’s not that bad. It just… it doesn’t feel great, I guess. But it’s not like I can go and unstab Felix and fix it… and I wouldn’t really want to. The guy had it coming.” 

Wash certainly can’t argue that, s he simply winds his arm around Tucker’s shoulders. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know, alright?”

“Yeah, okay.” The corner of Tucker’s lips curls up into a little smirk. He pushes lightly at Wash’s chest, backing him up against the wall of the nearby building. “Y’know, you could probably help take my mind off it.”

“Tucker, we don’t have time.” But that doesn’t stop Wash from leaning down to meet Tucker halfway. It doesn’t last long before Tucker’s pulling away and grimacing, one hand flying to the side of his head. Concern rushes over Wash. “What’s wrong?”

“Epsilon’s just being a shit. Says he doesn’t wanna be all up close and personal when I blow you.”

Wash blinks at him. “You weren’t--”

“Not yet, but I was thinking about and--Jesus Christ, Church, would you shut up? Fuck this, I’m gonna go shove him in Caboose. We’re picking this up later though,” he says, giving Wash a pointed look before turning and heading back toward the others.

There isn’t time to get back to it before they get on the move again back to Armonia, but Wash has a feeling there will be a moment for that and many other things later. 

* * *

They split off into a couple groups once they get to the city. Tucker doesn't seem interested in letting Palomo out of his sight, so he goes with him and Doc to the hospital, along with Caboose, who keeps a firm grip on Tucker’s arm as they walk out of sight. He’s been quiet and sad since they left the temple and Wash has a feeling he knows why. 

He’ll talk to him later… maybe see if there’s anyway to fix things. But for now, there are other matters to attend to. 

Wash and Carolina stick close to Locus on their way to Kimball’s office. A few people stop them to exchange brief greetings, mostly mutual joy at their still being alive. Wash isn’t quite ready for it when Karimi throws herself at him for a hug, but he manages to catch her without stumbling. 

“It’s good to see you too,” he says, with a slightly awkward laugh as he lightly pats her back. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“You too, sir.” She beams at him as she pulls away, but her brow furrows as she looks past him toward Locus. “What’s his deal? He a prisoner or something?”

Wash shrugs a little awkwardly. “Not exactly. It’s complicated.”

There’s a slight hesitation before she nods. “Shoot me the short version later, yeah? I gotta go find Diego. I know a bunch of Feds got sent out to start mining shit, so I figure he got shipped out there.” 

“Let me know if you find him?” Wash is going to have to go through a list later, make sure everyone’s accounted for. There’s no reason why they should have lost anyone, but he doesn’t trust that Felix was remotely responsible with his control. He could have thrown people off a cliff just for the hell of it, or walked them into a lake. 

“I’ll tell you  _ when _ I do,” she says firmly, giving him a sharp look before patting his shoulder and rushing off toward Wexler and Jensen. At least most of Simmons’ squad is accounted for. The three of them pull him and Grif off, probably for a reunion or to help Grif search for gold squad. 

Wash wishes he could go with them, but they have business to attend to. Because Locus isn’t the only person with them not entirely welcome. Somehow, Price still manages to look totally at peace, ever in control even with his hands bound behind his back and Carolina’s vice grip on his arm. They still need him, something Price definitely knows. 

Kimball’s pacing her office when they get there and Locus very quickly grabs Price because Carolina’s arms are suddenly full. There’s a clatter as Kimball’s helmet drops to the floor and Carolina’s follows is a moment after. Wash knows he should look away, but he can’t help watching out of the corner of his eye, biting at his lip to hold back a smile as Carolina holds Kimball aloft, spinning both of them, looking happier, more alive than Wash has seen her in years. 

She sets Kimball down and Wash has the decency to look away as they lean in. There’s no telling how long this temporary reprieve will last. They should get to have their moment. 

It doesn’t take long for Kimball to clear her throat, signalling the moment’s end and Wash looks toward her in time to be pulled in for a hug he’s definitely not expecting. He looks to Carolina a little awkwardly before he gets an arm around Kimball to lightly pat her back. “I’m glad you’re alright, general.”

“Same to you.” She pulls back, giving him a small smile before she shoves at his chest. “Remind me to never let you try any more brilliant plans about getting yourself captured.”

Laughing sheepishly, Wash ducks his head. “Fair enough. I don’t think I’ll be suggesting any more of those for a while.”

“Good.” Kimball nods firmly. Her eyes ice over as she looks at Locus, lips pressing to a hard line. “I’ve been informed you turned on Felix.”

Locus has his helmet on, so it’s impossible to tell, but Wash gets the distinct feeling Locus looks his way before he nods stiffly. “I did. But I’m well aware that doesn’t make up for my previous actions.”

“Glad we agree on something.” Kimball stares him down for another long moment before blowing out a slow breath. “For now, we need you, but once everything is said and done--”

“I know there is much for me to answer for, and I will not fight any punishment you deem appropriate.” Locus sounds defeated, but his shoulders are still straight and strong. 

“Good, but…” Kimball frowns, looking past Locus to something in the hallway behind them. “It’s not only me you’re going to have to answer to.”

Wash is halfway toward looking at whatever Kimball is when another voice cuts in. “I want that man arrested on the double!”

Doyle wheels into the room, already redfaced and furious as he stares down Locus with more intensity than Wash would have thought him capable of. “Agents Washington and Carolina, thank you for apprehending Locus, but what on earth convinced you to bring him here? And why aren’t his hands bound? I want his armor and weapons locked up. I want him thrown in a cell. He can’t--”

“General, slow down.” Wash holds his hands up in surrender as he takes a few steps closer to Doyle. He looks no worse for the wear. Felix probably left him alone for the most part, not much he could do with him in the chair. “I understand where you’re coming from--”

“No, Agent Washington, I don’t believe you do.” The stare Doyle levels him with makes it quite clear the tirade from before wasn’t just bluster. Damn it. Wash had known this wouldn’t be easy, but he had hoped they could at least get through a bit of planning before things devolved. 

Wash takes a breath, squaring his shoulders. “General, may I speak to you in private? Please?”

He half expects Doyle to refuse, the way his lips press to a thin line and his hands curl tight around the armrests of his chair. But then he turns and gives a very curt nod as he wheels back out of the room. Wash glances over his shoulder at the others. “You get started talking, we’ll be back in a minute.”

Carolina nods and Kimball mouths the words ‘good luck’ at him and he’s sure they would be sarcastic if she said them aloud. Locus says nothing at all. That’s probably for the best. 

* * *

Wash follows Doyle into another office, probably one that still hasn’t been used much judging by the fine layer of dust over everything. Once the door shuts behind him, Doyle turns to him, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Well? Out with it. What exactly do you plan to say to convince me to work with that--with that  _ monster _ ,” Doyle says, spitting out the last word like he wishes he could think of something more vile to say instead. 

It’s a good question and one Wash knows for a fact he doesn’t have a decent answer for. Doyle trusted Locus once and it cost him dearly, it cost the entire planet. There’s no overlooking that. 

So Wash lets out a breath and doesn’t answer the question. “It’s good to see you, general,” is what he says instead. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

That seems to take the wind out of Doyle for a moment, his eyes widening and then growing a bit softer. “And I’m quite pleased you’re alright as well, Wash. I must admit, you had us all quite concerned for a while there and--you’re trying to distract me. That’s not fair.”

“I know.” And Wash means it. He grabs chair from where it’s pushed back against the wall and drags it over next to Doyle so he can get on his level. “I’m sorry. None of this is fair, sir. But I wouldn’t be asking you to cooperate with Locus if I thought there were any other options.”

“I don’t see why we need him,” Doyle says petulantly, lower lip sticking out slightly. It looks as though he hasn’t shaved in a while, faint red stubble clinging to his jaw. Wash can’t imagine he looks any less scruffy just now. If anything, he’s probably worse. They’re all tired and worn down. But they aren’t quite done. 

“We still need to deal with Control. Locus and Price are the only ones that know their plans and how to communicate with them. If they were willing to go to these extents to get Chorus under their power, we have to assume they aren’t going to give up after this plan fell through. We need to find a way to stop them once and for all. They’re already here, we don’t have time to regroup properly. We need to find a way to stop them and we need to do it fast.”

Doyle’s still frowning, brow furrowed as he stares at a spot on the floor. Wash lets out a breath and reaches for him, hand resting gently on his arm. “If I thought there was any way to do this without him, believe me, that’s what we’d be doing. We need him, general. You don’t have to like it, I don’t think any of us do.”

“Well that’s alright then, because I don’t.” It doesn’t sound as though Doyle honestly thinks it’s remotely alright, but he uncoils a little, stroking at his mustache as he leans back in his chair. “Once this is over, I want him gone. Vanessa will likely want him tried for his crimes, made to serve some punishment, but I… what punishment can make up for what he’s done?”

The general is just full of questions Wash doesn’t have answers for. He gives Doyle’s arm a squeeze. “I don’t think there is one. I’ll leave what happens to him up to you and Kimball to decide, but we can worry about that later, alright? He’s not going to just get away with what he did to you and your people, general, I promise you that.”

Doyle looks over Wash’s face for a long moment, eyes slightly narrowed. Then he nods. Letting out a breath, he grimaces for a moment. “Thank you, Washington. I… I know it’s cruel for me to make you speak of such things. Your connection to him--”

“Doesn’t matter right now,” Wash says quickly, cutting him off. “What Locus is to me doesn't matter right now and it’s infinitely less important than what he did to this planet.”

And Wash means all that, he truly does. But on the other hand, it’s so much easier to simply dismiss any link he has to Locus because he still isn’t ready to think about it. The last several days don’t undo all the things Locus has done, they can’t outweigh everything else. 

But there’s still a part of him--a stupid, selfish part, he thinks--that wants to… to something. He honestly doesn't know, understand maybe? To make sense of the scarred up mark on his collarbone. Wash wants to believe he owes Locus nothing, but he keeps remembering the way he fell after taking those bullets for Tucker, the way he had pressed the invisibility chip into his hand. He shouldn’t owe Locus anything for the simple fact that he’s suddenly decided to grow a conscience, he doesn’t. He knows that.

Now if he could just get his stupid brain to shut up about it. 

“Do you think you can handle being in the same room with him?” Wash asks, watching Doyle closely. 

Doyle’s lips curl, but after a moment, he nods. It’s still stiff, but it’s better than nothing. “If I must.”

“If it helps,” Wash says before he can stop himself, “Carolina and I aren’t having much fun being stuck in the same room with Price. So you’re not alone.”

A thought occurs to him then and Wash feels his jaw tighten. “About Price… he’s going to try to manipulate you. You and Kimball probably. It’s what he does. Any shred of weakness he picks up on, he’s going to use. You need to be ready for that.”

Doyle’s eyebrows are high on his forehead, but he nods again. “I will do my best. I am a weak man, Agent Washington, but I will attempt to not let him get to me.”

“Good.” Wash grips Doyle’s shoulder and rises from his seat. He moves around to the back of Doyle’s chair. “May I?”

“Oh, why thank you.” Doyle lets his hands rest in his lap as Wash pushes him along. They aren’t far from Kimball’s office, it’s just down the hall. But it’s enough time for Wash to get a decent look at Doyle’s chair. He hadn’t before, at least not enough to notice one crucial detail. 

“Did you get a new chair, general?”

“Hmm, no, this is the same one as always. Why?” Doyle tips his head back so he can look up at Wash’s face.

“It’s just… I don’t know why, but I thought it was motorized.”

“Ah, no. I asked Emily to give me a manual one. If I’m to be stuck in the thing, I may at least make sure I’m in charge of getting myself from place to place instead of relying on some machine.”

Despite everything Doyle says to the contrary and the way he immediately tenses when they get back to Kimball’s office, Wash is quite sure that the general is a great many things, but he isn’t weak. Not anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright first, I just want to say thank you so much to everyone for the amazingly sweet comments I've been getting lately! You guys are so sweet and I love you! A couple people have asked, so I just want to say that if anyone wants to write something based on this fic or draw something, that is 100% okay with me and would honestly make my day! I've gotten a little behind on writing lately, but I'm going to do my best to keep up with the usual update schedule.


	39. Pointed Out My Flaws Again

The first thing that becomes clear is that they’re already on a time crunch. Control is on the planet. They arrived about three hours before Wash and Locus had gotten Tucker out of Armonia. The only reason they haven’t left yet is that no one’s bothered turning off the giant space laser that shoots ships out of the sky. 

“It would be best,” Price says, speaking in his usual careful, put together manner despite the cuffs binding him to his chair and the death glare Carolina shoots him every ten seconds, “if I was permitted to send a message to them. They’ve likely already realized that something has gone wrong and will be working to get a message out to the UNSC at the earliest possible moment.”

“And what exactly are you going to tell them?” Kimball eyes Price with sharp distrust, she had from the moment he stepped into the room, making Wash feel a warm wave of affection for her. 

“I will inform them that there has been some… difficulty with the temple, but we are working to restore order. They know very little about how it actually works and I believe I still have their trust, but the longer they go without receiving word from me, the more fragile that trust will likely grow.”

He has a point and that just makes Wash hate him more. Wash paces because sitting still is going to drive him insane. “What about Felix? They’re going to want to know where he is, aren’t they?”

Price nods. “Most likely. I doubt they will be disappointed that he’s dead, but it may be best not to let them know for the time being. I can inform them that I’ve seized control from Felix.”

Kimball cocks an eyebrow. “And they’ll buy that?”

“It is a possibility,” Price says, but he sounds far from certain. “Felix’s death does make lying to them difficult. And they’ve already been informed of Locus’ betrayal of their cause.”

“Of course they have.” Wash rubs at the back of his neck and blows out a breath. He looks around the room, scanning the faces. 

Carolina’s pacing as well, along the other side of the room behind Kimball. They’re seated around a table in the meeting room next to her office. Well, the generals and Price are seated. Locus stands in the corner and looms, arms crossed behind his back. Wash has been doing his best to pace a hole in the floor behind Doyle’s chair. The room is brightly lit with the light drifting in through the window, though that almost feels wrong somehow. This is the type of planning that should be done in the darkness with a bottle of some kind of alcohol being passed around the table. 

He doubts the change in scenery would make things go any faster than they currently are. Price offers solutions, but all of them feel like traps just waiting for the rest of them to stumble into. Carolina’s dissected twelve so far, and Wash another sixteen. He almost gets the feeling that Price is starting to get as frustrated as the rest of them. If the situation weren’t so serious, that would be kind of funny and intensely satisfying. It still sort of is. 

They’re onto the thirtieth possibility when there’s a knock at the door and Park pokes her head in. “I’m so, so sorry to interrupt, generals, but Dr. Grey needs Agent Washington and um L-Locus to report to her office at the hospital as soon as possible.”

Wash stops in his tracks and glances across the room at Locus, who seems as though he’s forgotten the fact that he can no longer turn invisible. He looks to Carolina, frowning. “Can it wait? We’re sort of in the middle of something--”

“Go Wash,” Carolina says, with a faint jerk of her head. “We’ll be going around in circles for a while. If we sort anything out, I’ll send someone down to get you.”

He doesn’t like it, leaving them with Price, who still seems far too calm, but one doesn’t cross Emily Grey lightly. So he sighs and motions for Locus to follow him as he heads out of the room. The footsteps behind him and the way Park quickly moves to get several steps ahead of him tells Wash he doesn’t have to ask twice. 

“Did Dr. Grey mention what this was about?” he asks, doing his best to keep the irritation out of his voice. It probably isn’t Park’s fault, most likely, she was just the first person Grey had found to send to get them. 

Everyone’s still scrambled and displaced. Wash hasn’t gotten around to going through a list to check off names, there hasn’t exactly been a good moment for it. From what he’s heard, a large group is on their way back from the mines and more are returning from various scouting outposts. What worries him is the fact that there are still pirates out there, ones without leaders. 

She looks back at him, biting at her lip. “Yes, but I’m not supposed to tell you.”

And Wash is instantly suspicious, eyes narrowing slightly. He can’t believe it’s anything too bad, and if Dr. Grey is pulling them out of a meeting it has to be important. “And why not?”

“Because if I did then she thinks you wouldn’t come and then she would have to make you.” Well, that just makes it that much more cryptic. He glances back at Locus, but with him still wearing his helmet, it’s impossible to read his expression. It’s odd being in armor in Armonia, but everyone’s wearing it again and he can hardly blame them for it. A few people have their helmets under their arm, like Park, but more are walking around like they’re ready for an attack at any second. 

Wash can understand that. As much as he’d like to change and take a minute to just comb his hair, letting his guard down even for a moment is almost unthinkable just now. Part of that, he’s blaming on Price, having him in the city is doing nothing to help Wash’s nerves. But for now it can’t be helped. He’s useful, in his way, even if Wash hates every last second he has to be around him. So for a moment, he’s almost grateful to Park for pulling him away. It doesn’t last long. 

* * *

The walk isn’t a long one, definitely not long enough for Wash to guess what Grey wants or to come up with a good excuse to go back to the meeting. Park looks regretful as she pauses just before the hospital doors. “Um, Agent Washington, I’m sorry about this.”

Oh no. Wash blinks at her, one eyebrow rising. “Sorry about what?”

Park opens her mouth, then shuts it and shoves the door open. In the room, Dr. Grey looks toward them. She’s mostly out of armor and that makes it all too easy to see the very worrying smile on her face as she starts her way to the door. 

“Well hello, Wash. I’ve been informed that you and Locus have some injuries that haven’t been properly seen to.” Her voice is sickly sweet, like candy coating on a chainsaw. 

Wash takes an impulsive step backward and runs into Locus. “We don’t--Dr. Grey, it’s really fine. I’m not--”

“Wash, please don’t make me ask more than once. Get in here. Now.” There’s no arguing with that voice. 

So Wash sighs and trudges into the room. More of the beds are occupied than he expects. How many people were hurt under Felix’s control? Most of the people laid up in bed don’t look too badly injured. There’s a few people with casts and Tucker’s in a bed next to Palomo, armor piled next to it, his leg in a proper brace.

Wash glances back and finds Locus just standing uncertainly in the hall like he thinks Dr. Grey won’t drag him in. He doesn’t get to stay there long because Dr. Grey breezes right past Wash and has absolutely no hesitation about grabbing Locus by the arm and pulling him along with her over toward an empty bed. 

“I’ve been informed that you were shot several times, I’d like to take a look at the injuries and make sure they’re healing properly.” She looks at Locus expectantly and Wash is fairly sure he’s never looked more out of place. 

“They are. I’m… Captain Tucker allowed me to use a healing unit for a time. My injuries are--”

“You misunderstand me, Locus,” Emily says, far too sweetly. “That wasn’t a request, it was an order. You’re not going anywhere until I say you are. That goes for you too, Agent Washington. Armor off, please.”

Arguing is just going to make this take longer, so Wash sighs and moves to another empty bed and starts peeling off bits and pieces of armor, doing his best to stack them mostly neatly on the floor. The wounds really don’t bother him, but when he peels down his kevlar undersuit, he has to wince. They’ve healed, but the skin is still red and tender around the stab wounds and he’s suddenly glad for all that extra time the others insisted he use the healing unit. 

He has to fight down a wince when he glances at the mark on his collarbone. It’s still there, but the scar around the edge is worse than he expected. Felix hadn’t followed the lines particularly well, and he probably hadn’t helped much with the way he had been struggling. It’s a miracle he hadn’t wound up with a knife in the neck with how far some of the slashes stretch. Those are healed for the most part, though… he has to wonder if there’s anything Emily can do for the scarring. 

“Wash, please sit, I’ll be right with you,” Emily says over her shoulder at him before she goes back to pulling Locus’ armor off him, because he’s moving at about two miles an hour to do so himself. He probably doesn’t like the idea of being out of armor in a city full of people who would like to see him dead. Wash has only recently stopped being one of those people, which is something he’s still unpacking in his head, so he’s not completely unsympathetic. 

Wash sinks onto the bed and looks across the way, catching Tucker’s eye and offering a slight wave. It gets returned and after muttering something to Palomo and squeezing his hand, Tucker pushes himself out of bed, using a crutch to hobble over. 

“You get dragged in here too?” Tucker asks, flashing him a grin. “I was just gonna hang around with Palomo, but then Grey noticed my leg.”

“I’ll bet. You probably shouldn’t be on it much.” Wash gives him a pull and Tucker sinks onto the edge of his bed without much protest. “How bad is it?”

“Not as bad as I figured it was gonna be.” Tucker gives him a slightly sheepish smile as he shifts so he can get his leg stretched out a little. “Grey got me patched up pretty good, said Epsilon already helped a lot with the healing unit, so I’m not gonna have to wear the brace thing for too long.”

“Good,” Wash says, but he’s still frowning. How bad did Tucker think it was going to be? He shifts a little closer, grabbing Tucker’s hand and giving a slight squeeze as his eyes flit across to the other row of beds. “How’s Palomo?”

Tucker’s smile fades away. “He’ll live. He’s as obnoxious as ever, I don’t think Felix had him for too long, but… he’s gonna have to stay here a while. Grey wants him in counseling sessions. I think it’s probably a pretty good call.”

Wash nods slowly. Palomo seems to be sitting up in bed well enough. Caboose is in a chair on one side of the bed, both of them looking at something on a datapad. Something there makes Palomo left and lean toward Caboose, who Wash notices had an arm wrapped around him. Next to Caboose, Palomo looks tiny. 

He gives Tucker’s hand another squeeze. “He’ll be alright, Tucker. Felix can’t hurt him anymore.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tucker’s free hand drifts to his ribs and Wash has to fight down a wince. 

“Does that still bother you?” he asks before he can stop himself. 

Blinking, Tucker glances at him then down at his hand. His expression turns sheepish as he shrugs. “Sort of. I dunno, it just feels… weird. Like I'm gonna pull up my shirt and there's just gonna be this hole there. Kinda trying to just not think about it too much, y’know?”

Wash nods. He can hardly blame Tucker for that. Suddenly he’s not sure why he ever made such a big deal over his mark for Locus. At least that one was mutual, a sort of horrible push and pull that left both of them suffering. He can’t imagine Felix felt anything when he pulled Tucker along. And now he’s out of the picture, leaving Tucker and Locus with the scars to prove it. 

Leaning forward, Wash kisses Tucker’s shoulder. He probably can’t feel it much through the T-shirt he’s wearing, but Tucker still looks at him and offers a wry little smile. “I’m gonna be fine, Wash. You worry way too much, dude.”

“I know, but someone has to. But… if you say you’re alright, I believe you.” And he means it. As much as he wants to take care of Tucker, he clearly can’t protect him from everything. He doesn’t have to. Tucker’s more than capable of taking care of himself. 

“Captain Tucker, I thought I told you to stay put,” Emily says a little too brightly, suddenly very close. Wash and Tucker both jump a little, finding her suddenly standing right beside the bed. 

Tucker gives her a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to come over and see what was up over here. Locus okay?” he asks, glancing around her toward the other bed. 

Locus is sitting in bed, still as a statue, except for his eyes, which flick this way and that, scanning the medbay with a blistering intensity, like he’s expecting and attack at any moment. Which… probably isn’t entirely unwarranted. More than a few people, both in beds and moving around them, are shooting him wary looks. None of them seem to be armed from what he can tell, but more than a few of the medics are still in armor, so they could easily be hiding something. 

“His injuries are on the mend, you letting him use the healing unit probably saved his life. I’d like to do a more thorough examination later, but for now, I’m recommending bed rest and lots of water. He’s quite dehydrated. Almost everyone here is,” Grey says casually, but Wash can’t help but feel a horrible pang in his gut. 

Everyone’s dehydrated. Of course they are. Felix wouldn’t think to make his mind puppets eat or drink anything. God, he probably wouldn’t have even considered it until people started dropping dead or Price pointed it out. Wash takes a breath, trying to force the thoughts out of his head. It’s fine, everyone’s fine. Felix is dead, they don’t have to worry about the temple anymore. 

Although… he may have to ask Kimball later if there’s anyway they could have the particular temple destroyed for good. A planet wide mind control device that can be switched on and off isn’t a good thing to leave around. They need to, at the very least, figure out more about ow the damn things work. 

Emily’s hand alights on Wash’s shoulder and he barely manages to avoid jumping again. “Now, I don’t mean to interrupt the nice moment you two were having,” she says, sounding very much like she means to do just that, “but I really do need to attend to Wash’s injuries now.”

“Right, yeah.” Tucker gives Wash’s hand a squeeze before letting go of his hand to grab his crutch. “I’m gonna to bug Palomo some more.”

He presses a kiss to Wash’s cheek and then hobbles back over to sit on Palomo’s bed, quickly wedging himself into whatever conversation Palomo and Caboose had been in the middle of. Wash sighs inwardly and forces himself to look away, letting Dr. Grey examine the wounds on his chest. 

“Hmm, the stitching here wasn’t done very well, now was it?” Dr. Grey doesn’t actually touch the deep green mark, fingers just lightly pushing at some of the scarring around it. 

“Apparently,” Wash says, shrugging. “Is there uh… anything you can do about the scars there?”

He does his best to look anywhere but at Locus and is suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s being stared at. At least Emily doesn’t seem to pick up on it, or she’s very good at pretending she doesn’t as she looks at the scars more closely. 

“I should be able to make them look a little bit neater if you’d like. That’s mostly just cosmetic though. I’m more worried about these,” she says, eyeing up the stab wounds a bit lower down his chest. “You don’t feel any kind of pain here, do you?”

Wash shakes his head. “Not really. It’s a little sore sometimes, but that’s about it.”

Grey still doesn’t look happy with that answer and she grabs a scanner of some kind from her hip. She runs it over the wounds and makes a few soft noises to herself. “They look to be healing alright, but it looks as though the healing unit put quite a bit of strain on the muscles and nerves near that area.”

“Oh. Is that bad?” It definitely doesn’t sound good. 

“It could be worse,” Emily says, sounding reluctant. “I can give you something to help repair the muscles there, but you really should be on bedrest for at least a week.”

Wash grimaces. “Emily--”

“I know, I know, Wash. Trying to keep any of you in bed is like trying to nail jello to a tree, actually, I think doing that might be a lot easier,” she says, laughing to herself as she shakes her head. 

He winces. “I’m sorry, Dr. Grey. There’s just not time--”

She waves him off as she pulls out her datapad and starts making notes to herself. “Believe me, Agent Washington, I am well aware of the situation. However, I am still your primary physician and you are still nowhere near your best. Neither of us have to like it. Things are the way they are. All I ask is that you not cause yourself anymore unnecessary strain. Do you think you can do that for me?”

“I’ll do my best,” he answers honestly. Wash offers her a smile and the one he gets back is a little pinched at the corners, slightly strained in the way it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Is everything alright, Emily?”

Dr. Grey pauses for a moment then looks to her datapad, fingers moving over the screen. “I’ve been running through a personnel list to see if we’re all accounted for. I’ve had Park send me messages reporting everyone still making their way back to Armonia. But… it would seem there’s still a small group that no one seems to be able to locate.”

Dread creeps into Wash’s veins. “May I see the list?”

She passes it over and he has to force himself not to hold his breath. It isn’t a long list, which is something of a relief until he sees the names. “Sarge--no one’s seen him anywhere?”

Emily’s lips press to a thin line as she shakes her head. “At first I thought he might just have gotten himself stuck somewhere he couldn’t get out of, but Park has people scanning the city and they haven’t seen any sign of him. Grif and Simmons went out looking as soon as I told them, but… if they haven’t found him by now…”

She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Wash is sort of glad that she doesn’t. He isn’t in the city, that doesn’t mean he’s dead. It’s a big planet… and he could be just about anywhere on it. So could the rest of them. 

Wash grits his teeth when he reads over Smith and Adler’s names. Sarge is worrying, but both of the generals’ number two is downright suspicious. Most of the others are innocuous enough, though he doesn’t miss that Sinclair is included among the missing. It makes sense when he thinks about it, Park was the one to make the list. But the other names, he keeps coming back to them. What would Felix have done with them? No… not Felix...

“Do you mind if I send this list to the generals?”

Emily shakes her head, so he sends it off with a quick flick of his fingers and then hands the datapad back as he rises from the bed and starts zipping up the kevlar undersuit. “I need get back to Doyle and Kimball, I think I know where are missing people might be, or at least the person that sent them away.”

He doesn’t wait to be given permission and doesn't bother with any armor other than his boots. “I’ll be back later for the medication,” Wash calls over his shoulder, “I’m sorry, this is urgent!”

And it is, but he’s pretty sure that’s not going to make his next trip down to the infirmary particularly pleasant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first, I want to apologize for this chapter and the last one being a little shorter than usual. I haven't had as much time lately as I would like for this fic, but I'm trying to make sure I keep up with the weekly updates. I'm also sorry that there's a bit of a lull here, but things should pick up in the next chapter or two! Just got a little more to go before I wrap this fic up, so a huge thanks to everyone who's stuck with it this long!


	40. Still Burned in the Back of Your Mind

Nothing has changed much by the time Wash gets back to the meeting and rushes in, a little breathless from sprinting all the way there. Carolina’s still pacing and Doyle and Kimball seem to be mid disagreement, only stopping when Wash bursts in. Price is the only one that looks at ease, sitting in his seat, looking as calm as can be. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Wash says, nudging the door shut behind him. “Did you get the message I sent? The list of people still missing?”

Doyle nods, looking a little taken aback still. He glances down at the datapad on the table in front of him. “Yes, we did, but--Agent Washington, I’m afraid I don’t see what the commotion is about. General Kimball and I are well aware of the fact that Smith and Adler are still out of reach.”

The serious downturn to his mustache is a clear enough sign of that, as is the way Kimball pushes herself up to start pacing with Carolina. They both look far less than pleased, but not surprised. The only one that looks undisturbed by this development is Price. 

Wash watches him for a long moment. “You already knew about that, didn’t you?”

Price looks at him slowly, one eyebrow rising ever so slightly. “To what are you referring, Agent Washington?”

“You knew that the generals’ number twos weren’t in the city or any of the mines. You had them sent somewhere, didn’t you?” Wash does his best to keep his voice even. It won’t help anything if he snaps and punches Price in the face, but fuck does he want to. 

“And why would I do that?” Price is calm as ever, but there’s something odd about it. “Felix was the one with primary control of the tower.”

“You really expect us to believe Felix masterminded all of this now?” Carolina approaches the table and Wash is a little relieved to see the same suspicion he feels written on her face as well. “The temple was your plan. There’s no way you didn’t have a hand in this.”

Something comes back to Wash and his brow furrows. “You said you had a small measure of control, not as much as Felix, but I’m guessing just enough for you to move a few pieces where you would need them if things went south for you.”

Price doesn’t look shocked or caught, if anything, he looks almost pleased, head tipping slightly to one side. “An interesting deduction, Agent Washington. I must admit, I do usually plan several contingency strategies. Though what would I have to gain by misplacing the generals’ seconds?”

“It isn’t just them.” Wash frowns as he looks over the datapad again. “There’s members of both armies here and Sarge.”

“Enough people for us to look for,” Kimball says slowly, “but not enough to cripple us.”

She’s right. If it was just one or two people, they wouldn’t have to drop everything to search, but as it is, they still have enough people for a rescue mission. Price wants them looking. “You want us to find them…”

Price blinks slowly, the corner of his mouth moving up the slightest degree. “And why would I want that, Agent Washington?”

Wash knows what’s weird about Price’s tone now. That’s his ‘therapy’ voice. He’s trying to guide them. He wants them to figure it out. 

Taking a step toward Price, Wash leans on the table. He knows better than to try to intimidate him, but he still sort of wants to. Just anything to throw him off enough to fucking tell them what he’s got planned. Price isn’t like Felix, he won’t get a swelled head and start bragging. If they want his plans, they have to work for it. 

… unless that’s exactly what Price wants them to do. Wash’s eyes widen. “You’re stalling.”

This time Price blinks and it doesn’t look like he means to. His eyes flit from Wash to Carolina then back, almost as if looking for a way out, though he clearly doesn’t find one. After a moment, he lets out a breath, expression going carefully neutral again. “And why would I be doing that?”

That’s enough to make Wash sure. He looks to Carolina, he turns to him, eyebrows rising with alarm. She gets it too. Kimball and Doyle look confused, but tense. They don’t know Price like Wash does, like Carolina does. 

Carolina immediately gets on her radio. “I need reports from every tower on the wall. Now. I want patrols along every side. I don’t know what we’re looking for, but just report in if you see anything off, alright?”

Wash grabs at his datapad. “Have them send me the camera feeds?”

Doyle looks between them, eyes wide with sudden panic. “What’s going on? Are we under attack?”

“I don’t know.” Wash levels a glare at Price. “But whatever’s happening, he wants us wasting time with him and running in circles.”

And Price smiles at him. It’s small, but it looks almost genuine. Or the closest thing to genuine the man’s capable of. “While I have to commend you for your quick thinking, I assure you, my intentions are not nearly as terrible as you seem to think. I will admit that I have been buying myself time, but there is no attack planned, in fact… it’s quite the opposite, assuming my assumptions are correct.”

Wash has very rarely known Price to be wrong, and no part of that makes him feel anymore comfortable. He resists the very strong urge to throw his datapad at the wall. “So what exactly do you assume is going to happen?” he snaps. “I know you love your little games, Price, but I’m really, really,  _ really _ not in the mood right now.”

He’s screeching and he knows it before Doyle’s hand alights on his arm, but the contact is enough for him force himself to take a breath. Screaming at Price won’t help and it only makes him that much more frustrated. Taking a breath, he forces himself to take a few steps back from the table, pacing a few steps as he tries to think. Wash looks to Carolina. “Anything from the wall?”

“Not yet,” she says, the words bitten out through gritted teeth. Well, at least Wash isn’t the only one about ready to take Price out to the wall and drop him off it. 

Wash drags his hands through his hair and forces down a few more breaths. Freaking out won’t fix anything. Something is coming, a bit horrible ambiguous something, but apparently it’s not an army. It can’t be the missing people. Price wouldn’t bother having them get into a panic about looking for them and then just have them walk right back to the city. No… no it has to be something else. There’s something they’re missing here. 

Okay, okay, just keep breathing. What else do they know? Wash goes back to pacing. “We’re getting off track,” he says, almost just thinking aloud. “The problem is Control. They’re here and we need to deal with them as soon as possible. Do we have any idea where they might be?”

“I’ve been trying to organize scouting parties,” Kimball says, pulling something up on her datapad. “So far they haven’t found anything, but I’ve got a list of possible locations. From what Carolina’s told me, I’m assuming these people would want to stay somewhere comfortable.”

“An interesting though,” Price says, a distinct note of approval in his voice that just makes Kimball shoot him a glare. 

“You’re sure we still need him?” she asks, glancing to Carolina, who grips her shoulder fondly.

“For now. He has his uses.” Carolina leans over Kimball’s shoulder to look at the datapad. “And these are all the likely areas?”

“The more feasible ones. I doubt they would want to be too close to Armonia in case something with their plan went wrong, but they wouldn’t want to be all the way on the other side of the planet. All of these places still had power last we knew, and most of that’s coming from the temples, so unless there’s been some major tampering with those, I’m willing to bet they’re still running.”

“Alright.” That’s not much, but it’s somewhere to start. Wash frowns, slowly turning toward Price. There’s no telling if anything out of his mouth can even be trusted, but… he probably knows more about those damn temples than anyone else. “Tell me about the temples.”

Price blinks at him slowly, quizzically tilting his head to one side. “And what would you like to know, Agent Washington?”

“I know you’ve studied them--that you were trying to find the mind one for ages and found countless others while you were doing it. I want to know about the other ones. Here, Kimball, let me see that.” She hands over the datapad and, after scanning it and not being able to pick out anything important himself, Wash sets it on the table in front of Price. “Which temples are where? I want as much as you can give me.”

For a moment, Price just watches him. Wash has no idea what he’s trying to find, so he just stares, unrelenting. Apparently Price sees something in that, because he nods and leans forward over the datapad. 

“The locations marked in blue, I presume? Let me see. Here we have the Temple of Conquest.” 

“What does that one do?” The name doesn’t sound good.

“At the moment, nothing. That temple can only be activated by someone possessing one of the alien keys, and I doubt Control has a champion among them,” Price says evenly. “Now this one is the Temple of Sky, I found rather little about the purpose of that one. Outside of this city--I believe that says Acanthos--is the Temple of Music. Here we have the Temple of Communication, and just there is the Temple of Merrymaking, and here--”

“Wait,” Wash says, holding up a hand. “The Temple of Communication, what does that one do?”

“Most likely just what you would expect. The Temple of Communication can send messages to any place on the planet as well as transmit them quite far beyond Chorus’s reach.” Price’s face is impassive, but Wash doesn’t care. 

“That’s it, that has to be the one.” Wash tugs the datapad over. “If Control is there, they can stop us getting messages out. They probably brought an army with them, or at least bought all the space pirates.”

Kimball nods slowly, leaning to look at the map. “That would make sense… that’s just near Io, that whole area was mostly rich Feds--no offense, Doyle.”

“None taken. I honestly found the place a bit pretentious even for my tastes,” Doyle says, smoothing his mustache as he scans the datapad. “I rarely had much business there, it was shut down quite early on in the war if I remember, rather a poor stronghold if I remember correctly. Well… apart from the bits owned by… oh. Oh dear.”

Wash frowns, eyebrows rising as Doyle suddenly goes pale. “What is it? Owned by who?”

Doyle clears his throat, suddenly looking extremely uncomfortable. “There was… quite a lot of the city owned by a James Sinclair.”

Oh. Wash’s fingers flex at his sides. That’s important, but he has no idea what the hell that changes for them. “If they’re there… and Sinclair’s with them, she could probably help them make the place impenetrable.”

“Perhaps,” Price says slowly. Wash turns toward him. This is the other shoe that’s been about to drop, he’s sure. Price shifts a little in his seat, leaning back like he’s perfectly comfortable. “I’m uncertain that Corporal Sinclair would want to help Control now that she’s seen what it is they want.”

“What do you mean?” Wash asks the question slowly. There’s that feeling that he’s missing something here again. “She didn’t know what you had planned?”

“Not the details, no. And… I have to imagine that it would have been quite disturbing for her to be awake during it all and unable to do anything about it,” Price says evenly. 

Wash feels his eyes widen. “I thought the temple put everyone to sleep.”

“It did, but… that was always optional. And I may have ensured that she didn’t have that option.”

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” Kimball asks the question that Wash desperately wants to. Sinclair is a traitor, she almost killed Tucker and Simmons, Doyle and Kimball too, but forcing her to watch all that… it’s just cruel. 

Price looks to Kimball mildly. “It was an experiment, of sorts. I wanted a few minds to examine at a later time, to see the prolonged effects the temple might have. And Corporal Sinclair said that she was willing to be a test subject, though… I suppose I may have neglected to mention exactly what the experiment would entail.”

“And you wanted to give her a reason to turn on Control… you told her the whole thing was their idea, didn’t you?” Carolina sounds almost disbelieving, the tone familiar, but one Wash hasn’t heard in years. Not since meetings with the Director himself. “You’ve planned all of this?”

“You overestimate me, Agent Carolina,” Price says simply. “All I have done is consider all the possibilities and set up a number of possible contingencies. I don’t pretend to know exactly what your or Corporal Sinclair or anyone else will do, I simply make educated guesses and plan accordingly. I could very easily be mistaken.”

Carolina looks to Wash, hands curling into fists at her sides. He can’t blame her. Price doesn’t even sound smug, just like he’s stating facts that everyone should already know.

Hand moving to the radio in her helmet, Carolina turns away slightly. “Say again, Jensen? Oh goddamnit. I’m on my way.”

She’s halfway to the door before Wash manages to catch her arm. “What is it? Something at the wall?”

“It’s Sinclair,” Carolina says through gritted teeth. “She’s here.”

* * *

After having a very irritable Bitters escort Price down to the hospital to keep him under Dr. Grey’s watchful eyes, they all head for the wall. There’s not really much point in questioning either of the generals after getting a good look at their faces. Wash moves to help Doyle wheel himself along, but he hardly needs to. 

They make it to the wall, in what Wash is sure is record time, and get to the nearest entrance. There’s a squad of fully armed soldiers already there, about half Feds and half rebels and definitely more than enough apprehend one person. Park’s in the front, looking over something on a datapad, she looks up sharply when the generals approach. 

“What’s the situation, captain?” Doyle asks, already looking toward the gate, as if he might be able to see Sinclair through the thick metal. 

“It’s just Sinclair, sir. She doesn’t look armed and she left her jeep about fifty yards from the wall. We… we contacted her over a secure channel and she said she has important information about Control.” Park’s voice falters only slightly, back carefully straight. 

Doyle frowns and looks to Kimball. “Your opinion, general?”

“It could be a trap,” Kimball says slowly. “Have we picked up any other motion anywhere outside the wall? She could be trying to keep us looking at her while pirates sneak in the other side.”

“We haven’t seen anything else, sir.” Park pulls up something on her datapad and hands it over to Kimball. “That’s feed from all the other cameras. We haven’t seen any anomalies, not even the usual shimmer we get when there’s someone cloaked. It looks like it’s just her, sir.” 

Kimball looks it over for a moment, still frowning. “She’s your soldier, Doyle, what do you think? I say we at least bring her in.”

Doyle nods slowly, but it’s a long moment before he speaks. “If what Price said is true… we can’t afford to let her leave. Park, have her brought in and taken somewhere secure for questioning. Make sure to get any weapons and her armor. I won’t have her armed in my city.”

“Yes sir.” Park snaps off a salute and heads over to the group of assembled soldiers. She picks a small group and signals for the gates to open, the loud creak echoing even as they head out beyond the wall. 

Wash’s fingers itch for his pistol and it’s probably a good thing he left most of his armor back in the infirmary so he couldn’t volunteer to go with them. His hand curls into a fist as they return, Sinclair in the middle of the pack, a rebel on her left, a Fed on her right, each holding one of her arms tighty. She still has her helmet on and as the squad starts to move, Doyle wheels up signalling for them to stop. 

“Helmet off, if you please,” he says tersely. 

His mustache bristles as Sinclair’s allowed one arm free to pull off her helmet. It’s definitely her, the same bright red hair and piercing green eyes, though her cheeks are a bit hollowed now and there’s a scar on her chin that Wash doesn’t remember. Wherever it is she’s been, it doesn’t look as though it agreed with her much. Wash doesn’t even bother trying not to feel a little petty sense of satisfaction at that. 

At least he can admit that he’s a hypocrite. 

Doyle stares at her for a moment before giving a stiff nod. “Take her away. General Kimball and I will be with you shortly. If you find she’s in need of medical attention, send word to Dr. Grey.”

Sinclair opens her mouth as if to say something, but Doyle’s already turned his back on her, wheeling back toward Kimball. Park nods, saluting again. “Understood, sir.”

Park gives a few signals and the squad steers Sinclair away. Wash has to wonder where they’re going to keep her. As far as he knows, Armonia doesn’t have a prison. They probably have something prepared for possible prisoners or hostages somewhere, a planet at war wouldn’t go without those in most cities. 

“General Kimball,” Doyle says, cutting through the heavy silence left behind after the squad’s departure. “Would you mind terribly if I had a moment alone with Sinclair before we attempt to sort out what she knows?”

Kimball hesitates, but after a moment, she nods. “Do what you need to do, Doyle. She was one of yours.”

“Thank you, Vanessa. I’ll send word as soon as I’m finished.” And Doyle starts rolling the way the others went, not once looking back. 

Wash forces himself not to follow. This is a Federal Army matter. Sinclair is the reason Doyle’s in that chair. Whatever he’s going to say to her, he deserves a moment along to say it.

* * *

Doyle’s ‘moment alone’ with Sinclair lasts almost exactly five minutes. It turns out, they’re keeping her in what was probably once an old police station. Wash should have thought of that. The idea of either army having police when they’re all trained soldiers just seems… odd somehow. 

Sinclair is in the interrogation room, looking rather tense and uncomfortable in her chair on the other side of the two-way mirror. She’s not cuffed to her chair, or anything actually, both hands free and picking at the water bottle left on the table in front of her. It’s a lot more lenient than Wash would have advised, but the people of Chorus are still more people than soldiers in some ways. They still know how to be kind. 

Doyle looks like he’s trying to do his best to pace in his wheelchair when they arrive, Price in tow, Carolina holding one of his arms tightly. Kimball looks to the mirror then Doyle. “Did she give away anything in your talk?”

“Not particularly, though I do believe she is willing to work with us. My questions were rather… more personal than professional,” Doyle says, looking a touch uncomfortable as he smooths down his mustache. 

Kimball doesn’t press the point, giving a slight nod. “You and I should speak to her together, keep Price out here. If anything in his story doesn’t line up with hers…”

She leaves it hanging and Wash isn’t sure where she would have gone with it. His first impulse is to trust anyone over Price. But with the way Sinclair had them all fooled for so long… hopefully the inconsistencies are minor, if there at all, or else this whole thing is just going to get that much more complicated. 

Kimball holds the door open for Doyle and shuts it behind them. At least she’s still armed, though that does little to ease Wash’s nerves. What the hell is Sinclair doing back? Did Price really read her that perfectly? What if it’s all just another trick? There’s no telling with them. Price could still be plotting ten steps ahead. 

Wash blows out a breath and moves to lean against the console on their side of the mirror, raising the volume coming in from the other room just a little after finding the controls. Sinclair isn’t talking yet, but she doesn’t look happy to see Kimball. Maybe she’s still mad her sniper missed. 

“I’m going to make this simple,” Kimball says, tone clipped, but professional considering the circumstances. “Tell us why you’re here and give me a good reason not to have you locked up in here for the rest of your life.”

Sinclair purses her lips, eyes flicking to the mirror behind the generals, then back to the two of them. “I know you’re not going to believe anything I say, but I’m here to help you, Kimball.”

“You do know I have a pretty good reason not to, or did you forget about that part?” There’s a bit more bite to Kimball’s voice now, though not half as much as Wash expects. Doyle’s not the only one that’s come a long way. “We all remember the way you left this city, Sinclair, and now you’re back… just like that?”

There’s another slight pause as Sinclair screws up her face and shifts in her seat, looking as though she would rather be anywhere else. “I still hate you,” she says, after a moment. “And the New Republic. But I hate Control more, they bought Chorus ages ago, way before we even started fighting, and… in some ways, it’s been them since the beginning, so if there’s a way I can stop them, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“And afterward?” The question makes Sinclair’s mouth snap shut as she turns her glare on Doyle. “You can’t expect to walk away free after this, with all that you’ve done… to your people.”

Sinclair’s eyes widen slightly and she looks almost pained before she ducks her head and blows out a breath, hands curling tight around the water bottle until the plastic creaks. “That doesn’t matter. I just want them off this planet. I want them gone. I don’t care what happens to me after… not anymore.”

Doyle and Kimball exchange a look and Wash shoots a glance at Carolina. She returns it with a raised eyebrow, her lips pressed to a thin line. It doesn’t sound like Sinclair’s lying, but… they’ve all fallen for that before. She still has that fire, the one Wash remembers seeing in her months before. It’s dulled now, but he expects it wouldn’t take much more than a few pokes to get it roaring again. 

“So how do you think you can help us? What do you know about Control?” Kimball’s talking business now, fewer emotions in the way. 

Sinclair shrugs one shoulder. “Only what I’ve heard from Price and what I saw when I was there. They still want this place. Now that they’re here and they’ve seen what the temples can do, there’s no way they’re going to leave unless someone makes them.” 

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Doyle is terse now, Wash can practically hear his mustache bristling. “We are down several men and have no idea what they are capable of, nor what we could possibly do them to stop them returning to enact their plans again.”

Tense, Sinclair shifts in her seat again. “I can get you in their building, I know all the codes. I… I don’t know what to do to stop them, but I can get you there.”

“I believe,” Price says, his voice nearly making Wash jump before he turns to look at him, “I may be able to assist there. May I?”

Wash looks to Carolina, who’s eyeing Price like she’d prefer throwing him through the mirror instead of just letting him approach the microphone. She lets out a breath and walks him over, hitting the button for the mic. “Generals, Price wants a word.”

If Sinclair was tense before, it’s nothing compared to now, the water bottle creaking in her grip again as she sits up ramrod straight in his chair. “You’ve got him here?” she hisses between clenched teeth. “General Doyle, you can’t trust him, he’s--”

“Agent Washington has informed me just what Price is capable of, Sinclair,” Doyle says, cutting her off quickly, though Wash is sure he shoots a slightly nervous glance Kimball’s way before he turns his chair enough for him to look at the mirror, squinting at it like he’s trying to figure out where Price is behind it. “Let him say his piece.”

Price leans in toward the mic. “Thank you general. This may not be the best setting for this conversation, but I believe I may have a plan.”

“And why the hell should we listen to you?” Kimball asks, and Wash almost wants to hug her for it. “What’s to stop you from turning on us if it looks like Control might give you a better deal?”

“Control does not tolerate failure well,” Price says, with a slight sigh. “They were already growing impatient with my plan for the temple, and now that it has failed, I doubt they will be interested in offering me another chance. At the moment, General, I do believe you are my only choice.”

It sounds genuine, but that means less than nothing from Price, still, they don’t exactly have a lot of options, and the sooner they get Control off the planet, the better. Wash leans in over the panel. “I don’t like it either, Kimball, but he knows more about Control than anyone else. We should at least listen.”

Kimball lets out a breath and nods. “Alright, fine. What’s the plan, Price? It better be good.”

It is, but Wash doesn’t like it. There are a lot of moving parts, and a number of ways it could go wrong, which Price assures them he has backup plans to account for, but that doesn’t make Wash feel particularly good about any of it, especially the pieces involved to make sure it works. But as they’ve realized, there aren’t a lot of options, and the sooner they get this done, the better. 

So, after going around and around for about an hour, Wash heads out of the police station to talk to the important players they’re going to need. His first stop: the infirmary.

Locus and Tucker aren’t going to like it, but Wash is pretty sure that’s been the norm for all of them for too damn long. And at least, this might finally put an end to that, once and for all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guess who's back! I try not to let my OCs dominate the story too much, but I couldn't just leave Sinclair's plot hanging. I've got a bit more planned for her before this story ends~


	41. Take My Hand and Drag Me

“Fuck yeah!” Tucker lights up his energy sword. “That’s all I’ve gotta do? Activate another temple? Hell yeah, let’s do this thing already.”

“Really?” Wash blinks at him. That’s definitely… not the reaction he had expected. And he’s pretty sure Tucker still shouldn’t be walking around much on his heavily wrapped up leg. They’re out of the main area of the infirmary, in a private room Emily had agreed to let them use to talk. He almost wonders if he should’ve stayed back where more people could here. “You want to do this? Just like that?”

“Uh yeah, why wouldn’t I? I’m as tired of these Control fucks as everyone else, dude. I just want shit to finally get back to normal,” Tucker says, shoulds moving in a full body sigh. 

Wash nods slowly. “I would agree with you… if I even knew what qualifies as ‘normal’ anymore.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re kinda fucked about that, huh?” Tucker shoots him a little grin. Letting the sword drop, he moves back to lean on the bed that he’s supposed to be resting in. “We’ll figure it out though, once we get those assholes off this planet. I figure… maybe we should get a break for a while, y’know? Find somewhere to just fucking relax.” 

“That sounds… pretty nice actually.” Wash moves to lean next to him, looping his arm around Tucker when he leans his head on his shoulder. “Sarge is probably going to want us to make new bases wherever we end up.”

“God, probably.” Tucker laughs a little. It’s sort of hard to laugh about things Sarge might do when they have no idea if he’s even alive wherever Control’s keeping him. Sinclair had told them that Control had all their people stashed away in some holding room in the building they’re occupying and that they had all seemed more or less fine when she had last seen them… but there’s no telling how long they’re going to stay that way. 

“It’ll still be good, y’know?” Tucker says after a moment. “I think I’m kinda getting used to this place, and Kimball’d probably let us use one of the old cities they’re not doing anything with. We could get our own place, you, me, and Caboose. And the Reds could live across the street or something… maybe across town if Sarge is gonna start shit.”

“That could be nice.” Wash nods, trying to picture it, all of them actually having their own place, a real home. He can’t remember the last time he had one of those. 

“It  _ will  _ be nice. You gotta say it like it’s gonna happen, Wash.” 

Wash can’t stop himself from smiling at that. “You sound like you’ve been spending a lot of time with Caboose.”

Tucker groans and presses his face into his shoulder. “Yeah, I can’t get rid the guy. He’s… he’s pretty fucked up about Freckles.”

Stones sink into Wash’s gut. “I can imagine. I should talk to him… maybe there’s a way Emily or Sarge could fix it.”

“Yeah, maybe.” But Tucker doesn’t sound hopeful. “Man, I know Freckles tried to kill us a ton of times, but… I dunno, maybe he was kinda growing on me.”

Again, Wash nods as he rubs Tucker’s back. “Me too. Freckles did sort of save us back at the crash site. It… he deserved better.”

“There’s a lotta that going around.” For a long moment, neither of them say anything. 

“Maybe we could have a funeral for him,” Tucker says, very softly. “Just… I dunno, if they can’t get anything out of the chip, we could bury it and let Caboose say goodbye.”

“That would be nice.” Wash wishes he meant it more. They’ve all had to say too many goodbyes, it isn’t fair. There’s never been a proper moment to stop and let any of them go, hardly enough time to even really think about half the people he’s lost. And that’s just him, Chorus has probably lost enough people that they could have a week long funeral and it wouldn’t be enough for all of them to be remembered. 

He lets out a breath and presses his face into Tucker’s hair. Arms go around his middle and Tucker gives him a squeeze. “This is gonna work,” Tucker says firmly. “We’re gonna get this done and get Control to fuck off and then we’re finally gonna get a fucking break.”

“Yeah.” It’s all Wash can say. Because he wants to believe that, that there isn’t something else waiting around the corner, but he can’t. He’s gone too long waiting for all the other shoes to drop, had too many moments where he thought he was in the clear, only for the world to come crashing down around him. 

Tucker makes an irritated noise and shifts, making Wash sit up a little as he lifts his head up and turns so they’re half facing each other. “Hey, we’ve made it through plenty of shit before this, Wash. This is just like… the last one of those jumping things in a race.”

“The last hurdle?” Wash cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“Yeah, one of those. We just gotta get over this one and the finish line’s right there. You can’t get all doom and gloom twenty feet from the end, dude. So just… what’s something you wanna do when this is done? Something you’ve always wanted to do, it can be stupid.”

Wash blinks at him for a second. Tucker looks so earnest that he actually has to think about it, brow furrowing. “I… I’d like to finally do something with all those cat stickers you got me. Maybe… maybe if we had a place, I could put them up on a wall.”

Tucker beams at him with a smile brighter than the sun. He reaches up and cups Wash’s face. “That’s what I’m talking about, babe. Shit like that. We get done and you’re gonna play with your cat stickers, gotta get you enough of those things to cover a fucking room.”

Wash laughs, he can’t help it, just trying to picture an entire room covered in cat stickers is too much. He shakes his head a little and leans into Tucker’s hand. “What about you? What’s your stupid thing you want to do after all this?”

“Well… I’ve got a lot of ideas, but I’d kinda like to convince them to name a drink after me here and just go to a bar and get plastered,” Tucker says, grinning when Wash laughs again. “Hey, d’you know how long it’s been since I had a decent drink? After all this shit’s done, I’m making sure we all get hammered. I’ve only seen drunk Wash once, and I’ve gotta fix that.”

Snickering, Wash leans forward, pressing his face into the crook of Tucker’s neck as he wraps his arms around him. Like this, he can almost imagine it, all of them going out to a bar, ordering drinks until it’s almost morning, laughing and swapping stories with Carolina, leaning on Caboose as they walk home, waving goodnight to Reds at the door before heading upstairs to fall into bed with Tucker. It’s too good to be true. That’s not the kind of life he’s supposed to get… but it feels like he almost could. 

They sit like that for several long minutes before Wash forces himself to get up and walks Tucker back to the infirmary. He’s going to need his strength for this, they all will. Wash gives Tucker a quick kiss before heading off to his next stop, doing his best to tell himself he isn’t saying goodbye.

* * *

Doc has a little room all to himself, but he’s rarely left there alone. 

“We want to keep him somewhere quiet he can rest, not force him into solitary confinement,” Dr. Grey says as she leads the way there. 

Wash nods. “How do you think he’s doing?”

“Well… I’ve had a bit of a hard time figuring out exactly what was done to him. I have my guesses, and they are very good ones. Locus has filled in some gaps, though I do believe him when he says he doesn’t know everything that was done. He’s been shockingly cooperative. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

She looks at him, no judgement on her face, just curiosity. It’s still enough to make Wash feel uncomfortable and a little guilty. He shrugs. “I honestly don’t know what kind of effect I’m having on Locus now. I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

Emily nods, with a surprising amount of understanding and reaches to gently pat his arm. “That’s alright, Wash. It seems you’ve got quite enough on your plate already. If you’d like, I can inform Locus that you would rather not see him.”

“Uh, no, that’s alright, Emily. I’m going to have to talk to him--about the plan, I mean, not about… anything else.” Even though there are several conversations that Wash should have with him at some point. They can wait. They’ve been waiting. A few more days can’t hurt. Probably. 

“Of course,” Emily says, sounding bright as ever. “Well, if you ever want to talk I would say you know where my office is, but with how rarely you stop by, I’m not sure that’s the case.”

Wash laughs sheepishly. Alright, he deserves that one. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he shrugs a little. “I know. I’ve always meant to stop by more, but… it never seems like there’s time. With everything else that’s been going on--I can’t take a break to talk about every little thought that pops into my head, Emily.”

“Oh, I know. But we both know that’s not what I mean.” She’s still smile, but there’s a slightly stern look to her face, like a teacher reprimanding a student for forgetting about their homework. “Pretending your problems aren’t as bad as they are won’t make them go away, and neither will putting them off until the right time. There’s never a ‘right time’, Wash.” 

This feels like the part where he should argue, but Wash feels more like she’s almost read his mind. So he sighs, nodding. “I know. I guess… I’ve sort of been hoping for one to come along. Or maybe I haven’t.”

Wash frowns at himself, feeling like he’s babbling, but Emily just nods and pats his arm again. “It’s alright, this isn’t an easy thing, Wash. And, in your defense, it is tricky to find a good time to talk about anything in the middle of a war or whatever it is we’re caught up in now. But just know that if there’s ever a time you feel up to talking, my door is open. Assuming you can find it of course.”

“Right. Thank you, Emily.” Wash manages an earnest smile at her as they come to a stop just outside Doc’s door. He eyes the handle for a moment, stomach turning itself into knots. “So… any advice on what to do here?”

Grey’s hand finds Wash’s and she gives his fingers a light squeeze. “Be patient with him. It helps if he knows someone else is there… even if he doesn’t seem to recognize you. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

Somehow, it doesn’t seem right that he’s the one Emily is concerned about here, but Wash still appreciates it. He gives her hand a faint squeeze back before letting go. Taking a breath, he opens the door and steps inside. 

The room is a nice one, with brightly colored wallpaper and a large window. Doc doesn’t seem to be appreciating it much from his spot curled up on one corner of his bed, fingers absently picking at the sheets. He stares at nothing, not reacting as Wash approaches and sits on the side of his bed. 

Wash’s eyes flick to Doc then away again. It’s hard to look at him without staring. Someone’s cleaned him up quite a bit and given him an eyepatch, and it looks as though there was an attempt to even out his hair, though there are still some patches that are obviously shorter than the rest. Wash should say something, anything. 

“Doc,” he says slowly, shifting a little on the bed, turning toward Doc a bit. There’s no reaction and Wash bites back a sigh. He inches a bit closer. “Doc, it’s me… Agent Washington. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Doc hums, hand stilling on the bedsheet. It’s another long moment before his eye flicks Wash’s way. His face doesn’t look quite as glazed over as before, and for a moment, his brow furrows like he’s trying to recognize Wash, but the clarity is gone as fast as it appeared and his gaze drifts away. “Not doing anything. Just waiting and listening, always listening for him.”

“Him who? Omega?” Wash has gotten a few more details from the Reds and Blues about Doc and Omega, though not as many as he’d like. 

Humming again, Doc nods. He looks at Wash again, this time more curiously. He slowly pushes himself from the corner, scooting closer to Wash. “Have you met him before? He’s not a very pleasant person.”

That sounds, well… more coherent than anything he’s gotten out of Doc before. Wash is going to take it as a good sign. “We’ve met, yes. I’ve heard that you were uh… stuck with him for quite a while.”

“We were roommates,” Doc says, nodding again. “But he smashed all my dishes and we lost the deposit.”

“I see.” Wash doesn’t really know what else to say to that. Turning a bit more toward, he stretches out a hand to Doc slowly. Doc watches him, but doesn’t flinch away as Wash gently grips his arm. “I’m sorry he did that to you, Doc. I’m… I’m sorry about a lot of things.”

Doc blinks at him, head tilting as he leans a little closer. “If I forgive you, will you help me study for the MCAT?”

“Uh.” Wash hesitates, not entirely sure what to do with that. “I… sure Doc. Whatever you want.”

That gets him a smile he knows he doesn’t deserve. 

The fact that Wash isn’t even entirely sure what MCAT stands for and that he knows literally nothing about medicine does little to hamper the good spirits Doc seems to settle into. He has a datapad, one Grey must have given him, that Wash helps him navigate through. Doc is more aware of things than he’s been before, but he has difficulty focusing on anything for too long, Wash often needing to give him a little nudge or reminder to get him back on track. 

Doc jumps from topic to topic without any pattern that Wash can follow, but he seems content, so Wash doesn’t protest. For almost an hour, he lets Doc talk, asking only a few questions here and there. Doc doesn’t seem to like questions much, his expression turning guarded at the first one, eye flicking to Wash’s hands, only answering when he seems certain he won’t be hit. It makes something in Wash’s chest ache, but he doesn’t say anything. 

They’re on the fifth article Doc has found about koalas, for some reason, when there’s a light knock on the door. Grey pokes her head in, offering both of them a bright smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but it’s time for Frank’s dinner and medication.”

Wash blinks at her for a moment before fumbling for his datapad to check the time. How has he already been there three hours? He stands quickly. “Right, sorry, must’ve lost track of time.”

“Oh that’s perfectly fine,” Grey says, waving a hand lightly. “It looks like you two were having a nice time in here.” 

She opens the door a little wider to bring a small rolling cart into the room. “You can stay if you like, Wash.”

Wash looks to Doc, who’s attention has drifted to Grey, eye glazing a little. The temptation is there, but he shakes his head. “That’s alright, I need to meet with Kimball and Doyle soon anyway.” 

“Alrighty then. I’m sure Doc would be happy to have you come back again any time, isn’t that right, Doc?” Emily looks to Doc expectantly.

He blinks at her for a moment before looking to Wash. Doc’s brow furrows as he looks between Wash and then down at his datapad, then up again. “Will you help me study again? I gotta pass the MCAT, Agent… Agentington.”

Well, that’s much closer than Wash had expected, so he manages a smile with relative ease as he nods. He reaches for Doc slowly, relieved when there’s no flinch as he gently squeezes his shoulder. “I’d be happy to.”

Doc gives him a bright look and leans into the touch a little. His attention drifts as Dr. Grey offers his meds, but Doc lighty pats at Wash’s hand before he moves away. 

As much as Wash tries to avoid getting his hopes up, as he leaves Doc’s room, he can’t help but feel a vague sense of encouragement. Doc still has a long way to go, obviously, but he’s getting better, and that’s enough to make everything else feel just a little less hopeless. 

* * *

It’s going to take a day or two to hammer out the last few details of the plan. As much as he wants to get it overwith, Wash can’t help but be slightly grateful for the delay, if only because that means he can be in Armonia, waiting at the gate with Grif and Simmons when the soldiers who were sent out of the city get back, bright pink armor easily identifiable at the front of the pack.

“Hey guys!” Donut sounds bright and cheerful as ever as he jogs over. Grif and Simmons look like they would prefer to stand there awkwardly, but they don’t refuse the hug that Donut pulls them into. “Boy, I am so glad to see you again, I was worried sick when I woke up out there.”

“Yeah, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it was way too quiet around here without you,” Grif says, looking a little uncomfortable with even that much sentiment. 

Simmons just makes a vague noise and awkwardly pats Donut’s shoulder. Wash stands a bit off to the side, letting them have their moment. It doesn’t last long. Apparently Red Team isn’t big on the emotional reunions, or two out of the current three aren’t. And Wash doesn’t miss the way Donut looks around, probably for Sarge. Grif says something, voice too low to make out and Donut’s face falls a bit. Wash sucks in a breath. Probably getting the news now. 

As far as they know, there’s no reason to suspect Control has done the worst. Price is expecting a message from them soon, a powerplay, to show off their hostages. It makes sense. That doesn’t make waiting for it particularly pleasant. Though Wash is dreading it, in the weirdest way, the message can’t come fast enough. The sooner they know what Control’s angle is, the sooner Price can analyze them and figure out their next move, the sooner they can stop them. 

The sooner they can make them pay. 

“Wash!” Donut’s voice snaps Wash out of his threads just in time for him to turn and spread his arms to let Donut in for a hug. Donut’s in armor and Wash is wearing most of his, so it’s not a particularly comfortable embrace, but it’s comforting nonetheless. “Gosh, am I glad to see you!”

“I’m… me too, Donut.” Wash pats him on the back, feeling strangely reluctant to let him go. He isn’t entirely sure when he started enjoying hugs, but all the ones he’s gotten lately have been far nicer than he would have thought possible. 

“You do not wanna know what it was like while you were gone,” Donut says, with the tone of someone who’s about to tell him exactly what things were like while he was away. He lets Wash go only enough to move to his side, getting an arm around his middle as he starts walking them back toward the center of the city, Grif and Simmons busy behind them reuniting with a few members of their squads. Best to leave them to it. 

“Was it really that bad?” It occurs to Wash that he hasn’t really asked anyone what happened while he was the merc’s prisoner. Too much else has been going on to worry about that. But maybe he should have made time. 

“Well, I don’t know if bad is the right word. Mostly, it was just sort of sad. Caboose and I had a loooot of picnics.” 

There’s a slight stab of guilt at that. Wash really needs to go see Caboose. If he’s honest with himself, he’s been avoiding it. He doesn’t know how to talk to him about Freckles, about what he saw him do, what he couldn’t stop him from doing. And suddenly it feels like he’s right back in the crash site, avoiding problems and hoping they’ll just take care of themselves. 

But this time, he knows they won’t. He knows that isn’t how this works now, isn’t how Caboose works. If Wash wants to fix things, he has to actually do something about it. The trouble is, it’s even easier to make excuses not to now, to find a million other things to bury himself in. But he can’t. He has to make time. Caboose deserves that much and more from him. 

“I’m glad you were there for him,” Wash says earnestly. “I never meant for the mission to last as long as it did. Things got… away from me a little.”

Donut nods like he understands, which is honestly a little bit of a relief. Wash has gone over his time in captivity with Tucker and Carolina and the generals, which has been enough for a lifetime as far as he’s concerned. Although… in the weirdest way, he’s not sure he would mind talking to Donut about it. 

God he’s missed him. The realization comes in a rush so fast it nearly winds him. With the dozens of directions Wash has been going in lately, he hasn’t let himself think about Donut or Sarge, or anyone else out of reach. And this is why, because it’s only Donut’s arm around him that keeps him walking in a straight line, his feet suddenly unsure of the ground beneath them. 

“Well, everything else aside, may I just say that the scraggly mountain main look really works for you?” 

Wash blinks at him. “Thank you?”

He… doesn’t really know what to make of that. The way he looks has been about the last thing on Wash’s mind lately. It hasn’t even registered. In the back of his mind, he knows he should get around to shaving at some point, but Tucker hasn’t had any complaints about kissing what has to feel like a brillo pad. 

Donut’s hand brushes against his cheek and Wash blinks at him. “Y’know, we should get you some plaid so you can help Tucker out with those lumberjack fantasies.”

“Yeah… wait, what? Tucker has--I don’t--”

“You should really talk to him about those,” Donut says, casual like he’s talking about the weather as he lightly pats Wash’s side. 

They wander around Armonia a bit, Donut somehow talking like it hasn’t been a month since they’ve seen each other, like they could have been doing this yesterday and every day before that for years. It’s comforting in the weirdest way, even with Donut’s comments nearly making him trip over himself now and then. And even though Wash knows that in a few hours, he’s going to go back to pacing and dragging his hands through his hair as anxiety eats him alive waiting for that goddamn message to come, he lets himself ease into it. For an hour and a half, he lets himself believe that this is normal, that they can do this tomorrow and the next day. That things might end up being alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Doc is always a little tricky for me, especially with how much I've messed him up here, but I hope he's still alright. Thank you to everyone for the kudos and comments! I wanted to get back in touch with some of the relationships I've tried to build here, so hopefully that comes across here.


	42. The Cycle Ends Right Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Untagged ship Doyle/Andersmith features briefly here. If you want to avoid that, skip the second scene.

The message comes that night. Wash is in the infirmary, sitting at Tucker’s bedside, next to Caboose when his datapad lights up like it’s on fire, message after message flooding in, telling him to get to Kimball’s office on the double. He scrambles out of his chair, pausing only to press a brief kiss to Tucker’s cheek between words of his frantic explanation, and gives Caboose’s shoulder a quick squeeze before charging out the door. 

He’s halfway down the hall before he feels the prickle at the back of his neck that nearly makes him stumble as Epsilon jumps into his head. Wash is almost relieved that he isn’t used to the feeling. Getting accustomed to that is dangerous. Epsilon has a space for himself in Wash’s head again, but he’s not supposed to stay. They haven’t talked about it, but the understanding is there. 

_ Where’s the fucking fire, dude? _

“Kimball’s office, apparently.” Wash doesn’t slow down, which is probably a good thing, since he’s half out of armor, helmet left behind, so there’s no way to hide the fact that it looks like he’s talking to himself. “Control’s making contact.”

_ Shit. Well, it’s about damn time. The hell took them so long? _

“Power play. They probably want us anxious and scrambling.”

_ Isn’t that kinda what we are? _

“Control doesn’t need to know that.”

_ Yeah, good point, I guess. This shit sucks, dude. _

“Did you have a reason for jumping in my head other than making the understatement of the year?”

_ Hey, don’t blame me. Tucker’s still on bedrest, so someone’s gotta come along to see what the fuck’s going on. _

“Fair enough.” 

It isn’t far to Kimball’s office and Wash does his best to catch his breath just outside the door before quietly slipping in. Carolina is the only one who notices him, glancing back and subtly motioning him closer to where she’s standing, arms crossed, behind Kimball, clearly doing her best to look intimidating. Wash takes that as a cue to do the same, standing behind Doyle’s chair. 

Both the generals and Price have their attention fixed on a large view screen before them. There’s several people there, none of whom Wash recognizes. Most of them stand slightly back from the screen, a man and woman standing front and center, both looking severe and rather smug. The woman is all sharp angles, pointed chin and narrowed eyes. Next to her, the man is tall and thin and almost unbearably smug, even though he hasn’t said a word Wash has heard yet. 

At the moment, Price has the floor. Or chair really since he’s still cuffed to one. And Wash hates that he wonders just what that says about how desperate they are for all of this to be over. 

“--I assume you understand by now,” Price is saying when Wash starts listening, “that this planet will not admit defeat without a fight and I don’t think that’s a battle you’re prepared for.”

“What we understand, counselor,” says the woman, “is that you have failed.” Her voice is calm and even. She would probably seem quite pleasant if not for the murderous look in her eyes. And she seems completely unperturbed by anything that’s been said so far. 

“Your plans have failed and now you’ve jumped to the defense of people who will likely turn on you the first chance you get, quite a desperate move.” She exchanges a look with the man next to her, the kind of look that makes it seem like they’ve probably spent a lot of time laughing about this together privately. “All you have succeeded in doing is renewing our interest in this investment.”

“That’s what we are to you?” Kimball’s voice is filled with barely restrained fury. Wash can see her knuckles going white where she’s gripping the arms of her chair. “An investment?”

“Oh, sweetie,” the woman says, voice more patronizing than Wash has ever heard anyone else be in his life, which is honestly saying something. “Don’t take that as a bad thing. We care very deeply for our investments and Chorus is by far the one we’re the most attached to. We could really do great things with this planet.”

There’s steel in the woman’s eyes, but she’s still smiling. If Wash didn’t have enough in his head to keep him up at night, that smile would definitely make the list. 

Doyle leans forward in his chair a little. Wash can’t make out much of his expression from his position behind him, but his jaw looks set and strong. “So your plans are still the same then? To use our technology to what? Restart the war? You realize that’s madness, surely?”

“Madness?” The man repeats. He has a skinny, barely there mustache, the kind people grow only to prove that they can. “What’s madness is that the war ever ended. And that treaty. You people ought to know better than anyone else just how profitable a war can be.”

Both Kimball and Doyle stiffen in their seats and Wash has to take a slow breath through his nose. He wants to put his fist through the screen, but that won’t help anything. Right now, it would almost definitely make things worse. 

“So your intention is to continue your onslaught against the people of Chorus?” Price is the only one in the room who seems genuinely calm. 

The woman laughs, the sound has edges to it. “Did you expect anything else? We have put too much time and money into this. Our investors expect results. It’s nothing personal, you understand. This is just good business. We would be willing to allow you off this planet if we weren’t certain you would go running to the UNSC.” 

“What do you even mean to do?” Doyle’s voice sounds like it’s about to break, just a hair shy from shouting. “Restart the war? Do you understand how many people will die?”

“Oh honey, we know. That’s a burden we’re willing to bear.” The woman presses a hand to her chest, probably where her heart would be if she had one. “Once all those pathetic lizards are dead once and for all, the universe will know about Chorus’s sacrifice.”

“You know what they say,” the man pipes up. “One death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic. There are always casualties in war. We’re doing what’s necessary. I will admit it’s a shame that you and your people have been caught in the crossfire, but sacrifices must be made.”

“And what the hell do any of you know about sacrifice?” Kimball manages to keep her voice steady, but there’s no mistaking the power behind it.

“Well, I suppose we’ll learn quite a bit once we’re done here,” the woman says. “You know, we did call to attempt to make a deal with you, but I’m afraid your attitude has put us off doing so. So consider this a courtesy call. We will wipe you out, every last one of you. So enjoy the days you have left, because believe me, they are numbered.”

And the screen goes dark. Wash stares at it for almost a full minute, half sure no one else is even breathing. 

“So,” Kimball says slowly, “was that enough?”

“Oh yes.” Price nods. “I believe they’ve just give us everything we need. Agent Carolina, I trust Park has the recording?”

“She just sent it.” Carolina pulls up her datapad, familiar voices playing, repeating the conversation. “Good quality too.”

Wash finally takes a breath, dragging his hands through his hair. “Was she able to get anything out of the signal from the call?”

“No,” Carolina says, frowning a little. “They had that pretty well blocked. It was hard enough to get a recording.”

“At least we’ve still got Sinclair.” Wash looks between the generals and Price. “So, is it time for part two?”

They fall into strategy talks from there, Carolina, Price, and Kimball working out most of the details. Wash ask questions here and there, but it’s easier to defer to Carolina. It makes it that much easier to notice when Doyle quietly slips out of the room. Wash frowns, feeling a questioning buzz from Epsilon in his head before he follows. 

* * *

_ Wash hang on a sec. _

Epsilon’s voice makes him slow, but not stop. He only left the room a few minutes after Doyle, but there’s no sign of his chair. It could be that the general just excused himself to get a drink, but there had been something off about his expression. Though he had stormed out of half a dozen meetings or more early on, this was different. Doyle was different. 

“What? I need to find Doyle and--”

_ Yeah, yeah, I know just hang on. I’m trying to reach Carolina. I wanna know what we missed in that video. _

Wash brow furrows. That’s not a bad point, though he’s not entirely sure what that has to do with finding Doyle… unless there had been something they had seen before Wash and Epsilon arrived. A horrible sense of dread fills Wash’s stomach. 

_ Alright, got it. Just gimme a sec and… oh. Shit.  _

“What is it?” Wash almost wishes he was back in the other room so he could have a table to grip at or at least something to do with his hand. 

It uh… it sounds like the generals were asking for proof of life of the captives. They’re alive, Epsilon adds quickly and Wash almost sags relief, though he senses a ‘but’ coming. 

_ But they grabbed Smith and he… he looked bad, Wash. _

Wash sucks in a breath through his nose and pulls out his datapad. “How bad? Epsilon, send me the video.”

There’s an unhappy buzz in the back of his head, but he receives a video file almost instantly. Wash hits play. It starts about as expected, though it doesn’t take long before he wants to shut the damn thing off and smash his datpad into the wall. Pressing a hand to his mouth, he has to take a few more calming breaths. 

“He’s still alive,” Wash says, more to himself than Epsilon. Smith had been upright, still breathing, but that was about all that he could say. He doesn’t want to know what the rest of them look like. But he has to know. Control just seems dedicated to shredding any last good will that could possibly be extended their way. Wash’s mouth tastes like bile and he can’t think about any of it anymore. 

“Epsilon, find Doyle. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument and he feels Epsilon leave his head. 

It’s only a few moments before he returns.  _ Down the hall, second door on the left. Looks like it used to be some kind of office, he’s the only one in there. _

“Thanks.” Wash doesn’t mince anymore words. 

The door to the room is half open, enough that he can see inside. Doyle’s wheeled himself up to one of the desks in the room. Most of the furniture looks untouched, like no one’s been in the office for some time. Not the sort of place someone would go looking for anyone. 

Doyle has his back to the door, but Wash can see over his shoulder to the datapad on the table. The video of the call is playing, the same section over and over again. Wash doesn’t have to see it to know what part. 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he lightly knocks that the door. Doyle startles and quickly brings up a hand to wipe at his face before turning to look at him. “Ah, Agent Washington, my apologies for leaving the meeting. I just, ah… needed a bit of air. It gets rather stuffy in those meetings, you know?”

“I can imagine.” Wash resists the urge to mention that it’s just as stuffy in here. There’s been a lot of moments to call Doyle out for bullshit, but this isn’t one of them, not when the corner of his lips is twitching with the effort of holding a smile in place. That’s not what he needs right now. 

Stepping into the room, Wash quietly shuts the door behind him. He approaches slowly and moves to lean against the desk, standing over Doyle. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“Can’t you?” Doyle makes a soft noise that’s a little too weak to be a laugh. “I remember, Washington, how frantic you were when you thought the New Republic was brainwashing your friends or worse. Is this really so different?”

“I never had proof.” Wash almost winces at himself. That’s not helping. He lets out a breath and drags a hand through his hair. “He’s still alive, Doyle. We’re going to get him back, and all the others. Control’s not going to kill them, not as long as they could use them.”

It isn’t a pleasant thought, but it’s better than nothing. Doyle doesn’t look particularly reassured, but he nods. “Yes, of course. Can’t go borrowing trouble now, can we? Must keep a stiff upper lip and all that.”

Even as he says it, Doyle’s lip begins to tremble, his hands gripping at the arms of his chair tightly. Leaning forward, Wash bends a little uncomfortably to wrap an arm around Doyle’s shoulders. He doesn’t know what to say here. What would Tucker do?

“What are you going to say to Smith? When we get him back,” Wash adds. When, not if. That’s what Tucker would say, it’s important. 

“I… I’m not sure.” Doyle sniffs, but when Wash pulls back a little, his face is still dry, brow furrowed in thought. “I suppose… I’d like to ask him--oh, I don’t know, it seems foolish.”

“I’ll bet it’s not.” Wash offers the most earnest smile he can and gets half of one in return. 

“Well… I would say that I missed him, obviously, and that… that I regret not taking up his offer to go on a walk with me weeks ago. I didn’t want to go outside then… didn’t care for everyone seeing me in the chair. It seems so silly now.” Doyle shakes his head a little, tears welling up in his eyes. 

Wash gives his shoulders a little squeeze. “I’m sure he wouldn’t hold that against you.”

“You’re probably right. He was… is always so good about things like that. He’s such a comfort. I think--I would tell him that as well and that… once all this fighting business is finally done, I’d like to court him properly.” 

“That’ll be nice,” Wash says, despite the fact that he’s pretty sure no one but Doyle would call it ‘courting’. It sounds simple and old fashioned. Well… maybe Smith would like that. He shifts, dropping to one knee so he can get closer to Doyle’s eye line. “We’re going to get him back for you and put a stop to this once and for all. Smith’s strong, he’s survived this long, he can last a bit longer. You just need to believe in him.”

Doyle nods. His eyes are still wet, but the rest of his face is composed, jaw set and determined. “I will. I do. Thank you, Wash.”

“Of course, general. And… you know, if there’s ever anything you need, you can talk to me.” That’s what friends are supposed to do and… he’s pretty sure they haven’t gotten to do much else that falls into that category, so he’s at least got to keep up there. 

“I know.” Doyle’s hand lands on Wash’s and gives a slight squeeze as he smiles. It’s still a sad, small thing, but it’s better than before. “The same goes for you as well, I do hope you know that. I know for a fact I wouldn’t have gotten along nearly as well as I have without you at my side. All of you really… you know, there really isn’t enough that we can do to repay you for all that you’ve done for us.”

Wash shakes his head. Alright, this he doesn’t know how to do. It would have been one thing if he and the other shad been sent there meaning to fix things, but they hadn’t. And in those early months, Wash would have done anything to leave Chorus behind and never look back. He hasn’t changed nearly enough to not be that person anymore. 

“You don’t owe us anything, Doyle. This might not have been our fight when we got here, but… I think the guys are pretty attached to this place now,” he says, feeling himself smile. 

“I’m glad they’ve come around. And you, Wash? I know you… haven’t always been fond of this place…” Doyle sounds curious, but not like he’s judging. And it’s a decent question. 

Wash has never put much thought into places. One planet is as good as any other. A base is a base is a base. The planet itself he’s never thought about, not in those terms. But the things on it, the people…

“Y’know, I think this place is growing on me a little.” Because if he has to pick a place to settle down, Wash is sure there’s far worse options. 

Doyle gives his hand another squeeze, smile finally reaching his eyes before he takes a great breath and straightens up in his seat. “I’m quite pleased to hear it. But I think we’ve spent enough time dillydallying, ought to get back to the meeting.”

Nodding, Wash straightens up and moves to wheel Doyle out of the room and back to the meeting. The others are still talking when they get back, Price and Kimball in the middle of a discussion that’s just shy of heated. Carolina’s standing slightly back from the two of them and looks over when the door opens. She raises an eyebrow, which asks a dozen silent questions. Wash just nods, which he hopes is a good enough response. 

Time to get back to business. 

* * *

Locus had not been a fan of part one of the plan, of the waiting, of being stuck in the middle of a city full of people who had (completely justified and understandable) reasons to want him dead. As far as Wash can tell, after being released from the infirmary, Locus has spent almost all his time in one of the now little used gyms. 

He’s there when Wash goes to find him after the call. Lingering in the doorway, he watches for a moment as Locus works a punching bag. Tension coils around him like a snake and even from several feet away, Wash can tell the dark circles under his eyes have gotten worse. There’s the weirdest feelings of smugness and guilt. He’s been having a lot of that where Locus is concerned lately. 

On the one hand, after everything he’s done, he certainly deserves a bit of discomfort, if not much worse. But at the same time, if Wash closed his eyes, let himself imagine another path, it’s a little too easy to see himself where Locus is standing. At least he’s managed to break the habit of his hand creeping toward the scarred up mark whenever the thoughts cross his mind. 

“Keeping busy?” he asks, pushing himself off the door frame and making his way over the padded floor. 

Locus spares him only a brief look before turning his wrapped fists back on the bag. “As much as I can.”

Which is fair. Locus has a new set of rules and lines he can’t toe. Apparently after his checkup with Dr. Grey, his armor was ‘misplaced’, though Wash has a sneaking suspicion that it’ll turn up again when it’s needed. Things usually do. 

“Did you want something or are you here to patronize me?” Locus sounds more resigned than anything else. 

“I’ve said two words to you, I think it should take a little more than that to be patronizing.” And part of him still wants to be a lot worse than just that. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be the one talking to Locus about the plans, or anything at all. Emily had taken him aside the day before when he had finally found a few minutes to talk and had rather heavily hinted to him that this awkward stop and go with Locus wouldn’t work long term. It would be better to cut off everything or start to honestly think about what they could be to each other now than to stay in the uncomfortable in between. 

She’s almost definitely right, but that doesn’t make it any easier for Wash to figure out what the hell to do. But it doesn’t seem right to try to force anyone else to talk to him either. There have been a few times when people have had to run messages to Locus and Wash knows for a fact that no one’s ever happy about the situation. 

“The first part of the plan worked,” Wash says, watching Locus’ punches slow to a stop. “We have the recording we need and we’re going to be going over the second part tonight. You need to be at the meeting.”

“Do I?” Locus looks at him dubiously, one brow rising. 

“Well… you should know what’s going on.” Wash blinks at him, slight frown on his face. He understands Locus not wanting to spend much time around the people of Chorus, but this seems a little much. 

Locus shakes his head faintly, his eyes flicking away from Wash, something in his expression going carefully blank. “All I need are my orders. Make the plan and I will carry it out.”

Wash opens his mouth and shuts it. He’s seen a lot from Locus over the last few weeks, but never this, he doesn’t even know what to call it. For a long moment, he just watches as Locus slowly turns back to the punching bag and settles into his stance again. “Is that what Felix did? Were you just following along with him? Because that’s not the impression I got.”

“What I did with Felix no longer matters. He and I were partners,” Locus says, managing to be surprisingly toneless when he speaks. “We had a job, we completed it.”

“So you’re looking at this as just another job?”

One of Locus’ shoulders moves in a slight, half shrug. “In a manner of speaking. But I’m not about to delude myself into believing I will be your partner or anyone else’s in this. I will do what is necessary, I will follow orders, I will--”

“Stop.” Wash grabs at Locus before he can think about what he’s doing, yanking him around so they’re face to face, putting himself between Locus and the punching bag. “What is this? Do you even care about any of this?”

Locus lets out a breath, expression flat as he gives Wash a long look. “What I care about no longer matters. I thought you would have understood, but… we are far less alike than I thought.”

And Wash has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to do with that. It should make him feel better, but it doesn’t. After months of trying to insist that he and Locus are nothing alike, hearing it from the man himself should be a relief. But it isn’t. It doesn’t feel like anything.

Maybe it’s because he knows Locus is wrong. 

So Wash takes a step back and sighs. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says slowly. “I understand your position… now better than ever honestly.”

Locus says nothing, he doesn’t even look at him, eyes fixed on the floor as his hands twitch at his sides. Maybe this isn’t the way to go about this. Wash sighs. 

“Look, there’s no fixing what you did. You can’t take it back, but don’t you want to at least… try to make amends if you can?”

There’s a long pause before Locus gives the faintest of nods. His expression changes, uncertainty written all over his face, though Wash thinks he understands. How can anyone possibly make amends for nearly annihilating a planet?

“Then you should know that just… passively standing back and letting people order you to make things better won’t really make up for anything. You have to try--you have to mean it. You can’t just pretend to be the good soldier anymore.”

Finally, Locus meets his eyes. There’s distrust written all over his face, but something else beneath it, something Wash can’t quite name. “Then what would you have me do?”

The words come back to him too easily and Wash almost bites them down. But there’s nothing else to say. “You just have to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the nameless, generic, evil ocs here. I didn't want to spend too much time with them taking away from the rest of the stuff going here, but I wanted to at least give Control a voice. Also, here comes my silly little rare pair popping up again, oops! I try not to let the side couples like Doyle/Smith take up too much time, but I just wanted to briefly touch on that one again. Thank you so much to everyone for the kudos and comments! We've just got one more chapter before we get back to the action, and hopefully it'll be worth the wait!


	43. Wait for Trains that Just Aren't Coming

The meeting goes shockingly well despite… several of the people there clearly wanting to kill one or more of the other people in attendance. There are a few tense moments between Sinclair, Locus, and the generals, but everyone mostly manages to keep a cool head. Wash hates that a large part of that is thanks to Price. His demeanor can be infuriatingly calming when he needs it to be. 

There’s been little talk about what to do with Price, Locus, or Sinclair after all is said and done, but once they get there, Wash is going to recommend launching Price off the planet in the fastest ship they have and sending him as far away as possible. At least Kimball and Doyle know better than to trust him. Wash is half sure Carolina pulled Kimball aside earlier and gave her a detailed rundown of just what Price is capable of, because she shoots him constant suspicious looks after every suggestion and makes sure to cut in whenever it seems like he’s trying to butter up Doyle. 

Wash needs to get him alone at some point to give him the same warning. As far as Doyle’s come, he still preens a little too easily when Price gives him a bit of praise or builds upon one of his ideas. They’re walking a knife’s edge with Price and Wash knows that if any of them slip even an inch, they’ll all get cut. 

That aside, they manage to get everything worked out down to the last detail. Price has his contingency plans, but… despite himself, Wash is starting to have a good feeling about this. 

They leave tomorrow, so Wash has to make the rounds now. Tucker and the Reds are busy getting prepped for the mission. Grif, Simmons, and Donut had all insisted on coming along. 

“If we’re getting Sarge back, you fuckers aren’t leaving us back here to sit on our thumbs,” Grif had said, catching Wash a little by surprise. Though maybe he shouldn’t have. 

Wash still has no idea how Red Team works, but apparently they stick together. Which he should learn from. His own team needs quite a bit of work. 

Which is why Wash spends most of the day wandering the city, asking anyone he comes across if they’ve seen Caboose. Apparently he’s taken to wandering around the city, sighing heavily. Tucker had apparently been keeping tabs on him when he wasn’t busy helping Palomo with physical therapy, but with the mission suddenly front and center, he’d lost track of him. 

“He likes hanging around the park,” Tucker had told him, when he’d had a moment between packing up the various jeeps. “But sometimes he kinda kinda wanders. He’ll come back eventually if you give him time, dude, he always does.”

And Wash wants to believe that, but that doesn’t make the gnawing concern in his gut any easier to deal with. He has to find Caboose. At the very least, he shouldn’t let him be alone with this, not after the last time. The apologies back at the crash site don’t mean a damn thing if he keeps making the same mistake over and over again.

Eventually, he finds Caboose sitting on the roof of the building that had been their home for months. It feels so long ago now that they had built the ramp outside and started work on Sarge’s pirate ship. He spots a hint of blue from the ground and quickly makes his way up through the building to the roof. 

Caboose is near the edge, but he’s laying on his back, only his feet hanging over the edge. There’s an immense sense of relief that washes over him and he sags against the door leading to the roof for a moment before he stakes a breath, collecting himself enough to head over. He’s a few feet away before he realizes Caboose’s eyes are closed and Wash hesitates. Which one is Caboose’s bad ear? He might not even know he’s there yet. 

“Caboose,” he calls. “What are you doing up here, buddy?”

Caboose’s eyes open slowly and he turns his head a little to look up at Wash. “Oh, hello Agent Washington. It is very sunny up here. I thought it would be a good place for nap time, but I am not sleepy.”

“Yeah,” Wash says, because he isn’t sure what else to say to that. He sinks down to sit next to Caboose because if feels like the thing to do, though he sits a little ways back from the ledge. Heights have never been one of Wash’s favorite things. 

For a long moment, Caboose says nothing and Wash frantically tries to think of something to say. Eventually, he lets out a slight sigh. “I’m sorry about Freckles, Caboose. Did… did you show him to Dr. Grey? Is there any chance…”

The look on Caboose’s face tells him enough and Wash winces. Slowly, he reaches out and gives Caboose’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

Caboose just blinks a few times slowly, his eyes growing wet. After a moment, he reaches up and covers Wash’s hand with his own, squeezing tight. “I just woke up and he was gone. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Again.”

There’s a lump in Wash’s throat that he doesn’t know how to get past. In that moment, he makes up his mind. Caboose doesn’t need to know how it happened. It doesn’t matter. And Freckles wouldn’t want Caboose blaming himself, he only wanted him back. 

“Caboose… come here.” Wash grabs Caboose’s hand and gives him a little tug, spreading his arms wide. 

With a great sniffle, Caboose pushes himself up enough to sit only for a moment before collapsing into Wash’s arms. He doesn’t cry the way Wash expects him to, loud and bawling. No, this is much worse. Caboose is quiet, wracked with barely audible sobs that shake his whole body.

Wash can barely get his arms around him, but he does his best, rubbing at Caboose’s back and tucking his head under his chin. He should be saying something ressuring, something that might help, but he doesn’t have words for this. There are always losses in war, but they never get any easier and he knows Caboose has suffered too many. And this one just wasn’t fair.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, it seems like the only thing to say. Caboose doesn’t say much in response, he just sniffles and presses his face into Wash’s chest, clutching at his shirt. Wash lets him stay there, one hand moving to smooth down his messy curls. 

After a while, Caboose seems to cry himself out, and he slowly stops shaking. At first, Wash thinks he might be falling asleep, but then Caboose lets out a long sigh. “I did not get to say goodbye to Andersmith either.”

There’s another pang and Wash fights down a wince. Of course Caboose would be missing his lieutenant. He hadn’t even thought to ask about that, but he should have. He’s seen the way Tucker is with Palomo and Grif and Simmons with their squads, of course Caboose would be the same. 

“Smith’s alright, Caboose… we’re going to get him back.” He says it like a promise, and he means it. Smith had looked far less than ‘alright’ when Wash had reviewed the video from Control, but he was still breathing. And that has to be enough. They have to stay alive. They’re going to be fine. If he tells himself as much enough times, maybe he’ll believe it. 

Caboose nods, but when he lifts his head up and wipes at his eyes, he still looks miserable. His lower lip sticks out, wobbling like he might start crying again, but he takes another sniff and looks out over the city. “When he gets back, I want to go home. We all need to go home.”

Wash blinks at him, a little confused. “You mean back to Blood Gulch?”

Frowning, Caboose shakes his head, almost like he isn’t quite sure himself. “No… I would like a new home. This one is nice,” he says, patting the building under them, “but it isn’t as nice anymore. And we need somewhere bigger.”

“Bigger?” Wash’s eyebrows rise a little as Caboose nods. 

“Yeah, we’re gonna need more room for your new scary friend and Principal Kimball and Andersmith and Andersmith’s boyfriend, and--” Caboose goes on for a bit, ticking off name after name on his fingers, going through all of them several times. 

“Caboose,” Wash starts slowly, “that’s… almost everyone on Chorus….”

But Caboose looks at him with such big, sad eyes, expression still so open that Wash’s words shrivel up and die in his throat and he just nods. “Yeah… we’re definitely gonna need a bigger place for everyone.” 

Caboose nods and then leans on close again, resting his head on Wash’s shoulder. It’s almost automatic the way he wraps his arms around Caboose’s massive shoulders and leans his head against his soft curls. He’ll explain to Caboose later that it isn’t practical to have everyone live in the same place… but not today. For today, it’s a nice thought, a nice future, one that Wash almost wishes he could believe in. 

* * *

With both of them all over the city, making final preparations for the missions, Wash doesn’t get a chance to talk with Carolina until about two hours before they leave. He finds her talking to Epsilon, who seems to be making quite a fuss. 

“--seriously Carolina, you’re really letting him just go off with that freak?”

“Are you saying you don’t trust Wash’s judgement?” Carolina has her arms crossed, but Wash is pretty sure he hears a smirk in her voice. Though when he hears his own name, he pauses, lingering just outside the doorway, peeking inside. 

Carolina’s in the office where Park had told him she would be, getting the final version of the recording backed up yet again, just to be safe. Price has written out several dozen backup plans, and they’ve taken care to make extra preparations for as many as possible. The last thing they need is to be caught unawares. And as much as Wash hates to admit it, Price is a lot better at coming up with exit strategies than he is. 

Epsilon is projecting himself from one of the computers, probably where he’s working on saving and encrypting the recording. He has his tiny arms crossed, tapping his foot on nothing. “No. But--alright look, I trust Wash, it’s the asshole and the traitor I’m not big on.”

Carolina sighs, bobbing her head in a very slight nod. “I know, but you’ve run the statistics, haven’t you? I know you were up all night doing it.”

“... Tucker fucking tattled, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” There’s a smile in Carolina’s voice again. “I think it’s nice that you’re concerned.”

Epsilon splutters, looking as affronted as a projected hologram without a face can. “I’m not  _ concerned _ . I just wanna make sure those assholes don’t fuck us over. We’ve got a lot riding on this, alright?”

“Mm hmm, whatever you say, Church.” She’s teasing, it sounds so light and natural. 

In the weirdest way, Wash almost wants to be jealous of that, but he isn’t. He’s been sure for a while now that Carolina’s a better fit for Epsilon than he ever was, and he can’t hold that against either of them. They both deserve a decent partner. 

He back up a few steps, intentionally approaching with slightly louder footsteps to signal his approach. Carolina has her focus on one of the computers before her when he enters, Epsilon’s hologram out of sight. She looks over and gives him a nod. 

“How’s it coming?” he asks, making his way over. The screens have a number of progress bars, numbers moving at a rapid rate in another window, which he assumes is Epsilon’s doing. 

“Almost there. We’ll be ready when we need to head out. How are we looking with the jeeps?” 

“All good, boss, everything’s on schedule. Now we just have to hope that Price is right.” Wash can’t help grimacing when the words come out of his mouth, and he isn’t surprised to find a similar look on Carolina’s face. He lets out a breath. “I don’t know how it came to this… working with him again, trusting him… it’s almost like old times.”

Carolina laughs like she doesn’t want to and makes a face. “I guess it is… in some ways. But I wouldn’t say I trust him, would you?”

“Not really,” Wash admits, shrugging. “But if this works… well, I still won’t, but he’ll earn a few points, I guess. As long as he keeps us all alive, I’ll follow along with his plans.”

There’s a slight sigh as Carolina nods, arms crossed over his chest. “It isn’t like we have a whole lot of choice there. He’s our best shot as much as I hate to say it.”

“What do we do with him after this?” It’s getting easier now, thinking about an after. Wash can’t quite let himself look forward to it, but it’s a nice thing to wonder about. 

“No idea. I want him off the planet, but I’ll leave that to Kimball and Doyle. The less I have to deal with him, the better as far as I’m concerned.” There’s no missing the darkness in Carolina’s tone. Wash has found it in his own more often than not where Price is concerned. Old wounds aren’t easily closed once they’ve been cut open again and left to bleed. 

Wash nods, blowing out a slow breath. “I’m going to recommend they get him off planet as soon as possible, maybe have the UNSC take him. If he stays around, he’ll find a way to sink his claws into someone.”

“There’s no reason he can’t do that even if the UNSC gets him,” Carolina notes. She shakes her head. “We can’t get far enough away from him.”

Wash sighs because there’s no argument he can make against that. It isn’t even just Price he wants to get away from, if he’s being honest, but everything that comes with him. “At least we know his tricks now, and you’ve done a pretty good job making sure Kimball’s wise to him. I should’ve given Doyle more of a warning.”

Carolina shrugs. “I don’t know how much either of us could do if he really wanted to get to them. He knows people too well. If he wanted to push their buttons, he would’ve done it by now no matter what either of us do. I think he knows better than to try.”

“Yeah… I guess that’s still something,” Wash says, but it doesn’t make him feel any better, just the opposite really. Taking another breath, he shakes his head, trying to force that down. They can’t get hung up on Price now, not when they’re about to follow one of his plans. 

So he watches Carolina for a moment, finding her attention back on the computer. Back on Epsilon. “You ready for this?”

She glances his way, cocking an eyebrow. “Are you? I didn’t think you’d be so ready to play prisoner again.”

Wash can’t stop the little smile creeping onto his face as he shrugs. “Stick to what you know, right? It went so well last time.”

Snorting, Carolina rolls her eyes, but Wash is pretty sure there’s a hint of at least a smirk on her face. “Uh huh. Just don’t get stuck there for a month this time or I’m never going to hear the end of it from Tucker.”

“You weren’t even at Armonia last time,” Wash says already grinning. “You don’t know how bad he was.”

“No, but I can imagine, and Church’s been giving me the play by play of everything he heard in his head--” Carolina cuts herself off, pressing a fist to her mouth when Epsilon’s hologram appears, hands already on his hips. 

“Hey, I fucking heard that. You tell Tucker I told you any of that shit and I’m never gonna live it down. Way to rat me out, Carolina, remind me to never tell you anything.” Epsilon’s tiny foot taps against nothing but air and Wash has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. 

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be such a blabbermouth in the first place,” Carolina shoots back, not looking the least bit guilty, tone light and teasing as she mimics Epsilon’s stance almost exactly. “No one likes a tattletale, Church.”

“I was not tattling! Jesus Christ, you believe this, Wash? This is the kinda shit I’ve gotta deal with,” Epsilon says, gesturing accusingly at Carolina. 

“I don’t know, it seems like you’ve got it pretty good to me. So… what has Tucker been saying about me?” Wash asks, doing his best to sound innocent. 

Epsilon flickers, making an irritated noise. “You both fucking suck. I’m getting back to work.”

The hologram flickers out and Carolina lets out a cackling laugh, tossing her head back as she claps Wash on the shoulder. Her laugh has always been infectious and Wash finds himself chuckling as he shakes his head. The situation should probably feel more stressful. They’re about to head out and split off to execute a plan both of them only half trust, but Wash can’t make himself stop laughing. 

“You know he’s gonna punish you for that later, right?” Carolina says, once her giggles have subsided a little. 

“You say that like he wouldn’t do it anyway. If Epsilon’s going to be an ass to me, I’d like to at least have it coming.” Wash shrugs, still grinning. “As long as he waits until after the mission, I think I can handle it.”

That sobers things a little, the smile fading from Carolina’s face as she nods. “He’ll stick to the plan. It’s your other partners I’m worried about.”

Wash’s gut twists, because she has a point. “Locus is… he’s just trying to survive at this point and he knows his best hope for that is with us. He won’t turn on us.”

That part, Wash is at least pretty confident about. 

“And Sinclair?” Carolina asks, almost reading his mind. Because… yeah, that part he’s a lot less sure on. 

Wash shakes his head a little. “Honestly, I have no idea. I don’t think she regrets what she did, but Price seems to think she won’t turn on us again.”

Carolina scoffs. “That’s not a great vote of confidence, Wash. Are you sure you don’t want to trade roles?”

“No, you need to go with Tucker,” Wash says firmly. “You’re the best backup he has. I know you’ll keep him safe. Tucker’s come along way, but… he still isn’t fully recovered and I know I’ll be too preoccupied watching him if I’m out there with him.”

She doesn’t protest that, expression somewhat understanding as she bobs her head. “Alright, then you’d better be able to keep an eye on Locus and Sinclair. If either of them try anything--”

“I know, boss.” It comes out a little too fast and Wash almost winces, not missing the look Carolina shoots his way. “I’ll take care of it. This is going to work with them or without them.”

Wash can’t help but hope for the former… even though he’s hardly expecting it to go that way. As much as he thinks Locus won’t turn on them, he’s not about to trust him as far as he can throw him. Sinclair is an even bigger question mark. Wash can’t read her the way he can Locus. She doesn’t have anyone to go back to, and that’s probably the most dangerous thing about her. 

“Price has his failsafes,” Carolina says after a moment, tone carefully even. Wash feels her look his way again before she sighs. “You know I’m just being cautious, right? I know you won’t just let either of them go loose here.”

“I get it, boss.” This time, Wash is able to keep his tone more gentle, even offering her a half smile. “Just checking in with your team.”

She gives him a sideways look, the corners of her eyes crinkling a little as she takes a step closer so she can nudge him with her elbow. “Some team we’ve got here, you, me, a sim trooper, an ex-merc, and traitor. Oh. And Church.”

“Of course,” Wash says, snorting. “Y’know, I like the sound of that better than some of the teams they put together back in Freelancer. I still can’t believe they put North and South on a stealth mission together.”

“Right?” The smile’s back on Carolina’s face as she shakes her head, though there’s something sad to it now. “That should’ve been our first sign something was off.”

And that’s going down a path Wash knows won’t bring either of them any comfort. So he just reaches for Carolina, gripping her arm. She stills for a moment and Wash almost pulls her hand back, but then Carolina stops him with her own, giving his wrist a little squeeze. There’s something a little off about her expression as she looks at him, then his hand, but she speaks again before he has a chance to ask. “I should go talk with Kimball before we head out.”

Wash nods. “Right. I’ll meet you by the jeeps.”

Carolina gives his hand another squeeze before pulling away and heading out of the room. Watching her go, Wash finds himself frowning, hand falling back to his side, the slightest tingle on his palm making his fingers twitch. There’s always been so much hanging in the air between them. Then again, they’re the only ones left, maybe it would be stranger if there wasn’t so much left unspoken between the two of them, things they don’t know how to talk about… and probably never will. 

“Smooth.” Epsilon’s voice cuts into his thoughts as the hologram reappears. 

Wash sighs, one eyebrow rising. “What? Did I say something? Are we not allowed to talk about Freelancer now? I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“What? Dude no, calm the fuck down.” There’s no way to tell, but Wash gets the distinct impression that Epsilon is rolling his eyes at him. “It’s just… sensitive, y’know?”

“Well, I was there. So yes, I know.” Wash takes a breath, trying to force down the irritation he feels rising. Why does Epsilon do this to him so easily? Even now, and Wash had thought they were in… well, not a good place, but a decent one. He’s pretty sure there’s no such thing as a ‘good place’ for them. 

“That’s not what I meant--dude, don’t put words in my mouth.” Epsilon already sounds irritated. Good. At least that makes two of them. But then he sighs like he’s trying to calm himself down and Wash kind of hates him for it. Epsilon isn’t supposed to be the mature one between them. “I’m just saying… look, you know talking about that shit fucks up both of you so... “

“We can’t avoid it forever,” Wash says, feeling more defeated than anything else. “We… Epsilon, besides you and Carolina… and Price,” he adds with the utmost reluctance, “no one else knows what really happened. It would be good for us to talk about it.”

“Yeah, maybe. But you’re kinda… not really doing that. You’re just--I dunno, man, talking around it. I don’t know if that even makes sense. It’s like both of you get right up to talking about serious shit that went down and then you just kinda… go on to something else or move around it and…” Epsilon trails off there, but he doesn’t have to keep going. He isn’t wrong. 

Wash sighs and looks toward the door. Carolina’s long gone. There won’t be time to talk about it now. This could be the last time. Something could go wrong. They might never get another chance and neither of them had taken the one they just had. Not really. They never do. 

“I know,” he says, because he isn’t sure what else to say. “I just… I never know where to start.”

“I mean… I think anywhere would be good as long as you actually fucking start.” Epsilon’s tiny arms cross over his chest and Wash can’t even find a way to argue with that. 

So he just sighs again. “You’re probably right. I just don’t want to make things worse.”

“Yeah, pretty sure you can’t. Look, Wash, I know that shit sucked, I was there for… some of it, and I’ve seen the rest in Cee’s head. And I don’t think there’s anything that can make all that bullshit worse.” 

“It was different for her,” Wash says, shaking his head. “It wasn’t just a job for her. That was her family…”

“They were your family too, Wash.” Epsilon’s voice is softer now, almost uncertain. “Yeah, I know the director was… literally her dad, but York and Maine and all the rest of them--look, I’m just saying it wouldn’t be bad for you to talk about those guys once in a while too.”

“Maybe.” Wash doesn’t want to admit to anything, not to Epsilon of all people. Not when it had been him putting the thoughts in his head back then. Just you and me. They shut all of them out. “Do you want to talk about the other AI?”

It’s a sharp question and one he almost wants to take back as soon as he asks it. That’s not fair. And it’s not the same. Not really. Epsilon didn’t just know the other AI, they were a part of him and they’d all been ripped away. 

Epsilon flickers, hologram shifting like he’s uncomfortable. “Y’know, sometimes I think you’re gonna be less of a tool, but you’ve just always gotta prove me wrong, huh?”’

“Takes one to know one.” It’s a petty response, but Wash isn’t feeling up to anything more now. His good mood is effectively shot and time is ticking down to the mission and he can already feel a headache coming on and his stupid hand won’t stop itching. 

“You’ve been spending too much time with Tucker.” He can’t almost hear Epsilon roll his eyes. “One of these fucking days, Wash, I--”

The computer makes a soft noise and Epsilon cuts himself off, flickering out for a second. “Files are all backed up and ready to go. And it looks like we’re supposed to head out pretty soon. So, you gonna stop being a dick if I hop in your head?”

“I can’t make any promises,” Wash says, but his tone is a little calmer now, not quite soft, but less intentionally accusatory. “But we shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

“Right.” Epsilon’s hologram flickers and fades and the telltale tickle starts at the back of Wash’s neck. He doesn’t slot himself into place n Wash’s head, but even though he’s holding himself back, tucking into a tiny corner of Wash’s mind, he can still feel the irritation rolling off him. A great start there. 

Wash sucks in a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. He should apologize or take it back. But they need to go. They’ll sort it out later. Once everything’s said and done. Just breathe and it’ll all be fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still feel bad about Freckles, I think that's probably the meanest thing I've ever done in a fic. Anyway, hope you guys like this chapter! I've had a couple bad writing weeks, so I'm not as far along with the next bit as I'd like to be, but I'm going to try to double down and stay on track this week to keep chapters coming out weekly. However, if I do need to delay the next chapter, I'll make sure to post about that on my tumblr. Thank you so much for the lovely comments!


	44. Sky Turned Black Like a Perfect Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Minor character death

It doesn’t seem quite right, that there’s just two jeeps heading out, but that’s the plan. There’s backup stationed not too far away, though Wash expects at least three of them to creep closer before they’re called. Epsilon’s got a special channel that should be far out of Control’s reach to call for help if they need it. God, Wash hopes they don’t need it. Price has dozens of fall back plans and emergency strategies, but he doesn’t want to have to use any of them. Too many risks, too many what ifs. 

He takes a breath and focuses on the road. This has to go right. 

Locus is driving, though he doesn’t look like himself in the scavenged space pirate armor. Sinclair doesn’t look much like herself either, but she’s back in the armor she had apparently arrived in when she’d shown up outside Armonia’s gates. Wash can’t help thinking it doesn’t suit her, but maybe it would be stranger seeing her back in Fed colors. Those aren’t hers either anymore. 

Sinclair’s in the gunner’s spot, hands locked around the gun’s controls. It has some ammo, something no one had been happy about, but Sinclair had sworn up and down that she wouldn’t use it unless told to by one of theirs. Wash wishes her word meant a fraction more than it does. At least the cuffs he’s stuck in aren’t real, meant to break away as soon as he gives them a pull the right way. 

_“You okay in there, Wash?”_ Tucker’s voice comes in over one of the secure channels. 

His jeep is a little behind Wash’s, Carolina in the driver’s seat. They can stay close enough to talk, but not for long. The split off point is coming. Sinclair and Price have mapped out Control’s security measures as best as they can. So it’s not until they’re within a few hundred feet of the facility that they have to worry. There’s bound to be some security lurking around the temple that they can’t predict. But that’s what Carolina’s for. According to Price, Control’s more likely to have most of the guards stationed around them until they see trouble happening somewhere else. 

And Wash hates the fact that he wants Price to be right about anything. 

“As good as I can be,” he replies, voice low. It feels wrong not to be whispering even though he knows there’s no possible way for Control to hear them. Hell, with the private channel and his exterior mic muted, not even Locus or Sinclair can hear him. The only eavesdropper he’s got to worry about is Epsilon. “How are things looking from your angle?”

_ “Eh, alright. Kinda wish Grey hadn’t stuck me with the stupid healing unit, my leg’s twitchy as fuck right now, dude.” _

Grey had managed to rework the healing unit, figuring out hot to make it operational without an AI. It’s not perfect and without AI guidance, it can only target one issue at a time. Still, it should be enough to keep Tucker’s leg working long enough to get him through the temple, assuming nothing goes wrong. 

And it’s taking all Wash’s self control not to picture a million ways for everything to go wrong. Just stay focused. Run through the steps of the plan again. That’s been Wash’s mantra since they left Armonia hours ago, though the drive feels like it’s already taken about three years. Wash will never admit it, but he misses Tucker messing with the radio and Caboose babbling at both of them. The last road trip they’d been on had been many things, but boring wasn’t one of them. Well, not this horrible, tense kind of boring anyway, where there was nothing to distract Wash from the worst of his thoughts. 

“It’s still working, right?”

_“Yeah, yeah, it’s doing it’s thing. You worry way too much, Wash.”_ He can practically hear Tucker roll his eyes at him. _“I barely even need it anymore.”_

“Better safe than sorry.” There had been quite a lot of back and forth about who should take the healing unit and where it would be needed most. Wash had put his foot down from the start that Tucker should be the one to end up with it, and though everyone else had eventually come around, he knows Tucker’s still not entirely happy with the situation. “And remember, if anything goes wrong--”

Tucker’s staticy groan of irritation cuts him off. _“I know, Wash. We’ve gone through all the contingencies and whatever. We got this. Just take a fucking breath, babe.”_

Despite himself, Wash does, taking a breath and shutting his eyes for a moment. It does help, though he’s not telling Tucker that. The tension coiled up tight inside him like a spring unwinds ever so slightly. He’s not admitting that something as simple as a little petname from Tucker does wonders for his nerves. But he probably doesn’t has to, he’s half sure Tucker already knows. 

“Alright, just remember to stay focused on the mission.”

_“Oh my god, I fucking know. Dude, c’mon, we’re almost to the split point, don’t make me mute you before I get to the important shit.”_

Wash feels one of his eyebrows rise and he’s suddenly very glad Locus and Sinclair can’t see his face. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be the one saying that. What sort of ‘important shit’ did you have to say?”

_“God, now you’re just gonna make it fucking weird.”_ There’s a rush of air over the radio as Tucker huffs at him. _“Just don’t be a dumbass in there, alright? I’m gonna beat the shit out of Locus if he doesn’t get you back in one piece.”_

“That’s so sweet,” Wash says, laying on the sarcasm thick so Tucker doesn’t hear the smile in his voice. The spring unwinds a bit more. “You be careful too, alright?”

Tucker’s laugh it light and easy and if he didn’t have Epsilon in his head watching, he’d try to record it to play back later. _“Wash, c’mon, who are you talking to? Oh shit, split’s coming up. See you on the other side, dude, kick some ass!”_

“You too.” And the radio clicks off as Locus takes a sharp turn to the left. 

Wash watches the other jeep in the rear view mirror as Carolina turns right and they start to grow smaller and smaller as they work their way around the outskirts of the city. The temple looms behind them, hardly seeming to shrink as they head the opposite way, toward a tall, strangely shaped building. 

The Sinclair facility has eight sides, the top of the building level except for the strange boxy tower like things at each corner. Those are apparently the offices that were given to the higher ups, and unless there’s been major renovations made by Control, Sinclair had made it clear they were far from ideal vantage points, made for comfort rather than war. Still Wash keeps his eyes on the two closest to them as they approach the building. 

They don’t make it all that close before they’re stopped by the fence around the building, several pirates waiting for them at the gate. Locus slows the jeep to a stop and Wash slumps in his seat, doing his best to look unconscious. 

“The fuck is this?” Two pirates inspect the jeep, the taller of the pair leaning halfway over Wash’s slumped form, probably staring him down behind his visor. “Where the hell did you find him?”

“He was snooping around by the temple.” Sinclair’s pitching her voice slightly lower than usual, but she sounds sure of herself. She always has been a good liar. “Picked him up and figured Control would want a word with him.”

“Yeah? Huh… didn’t think there was anyone patrolling out by the temple today,” the pirate says slowly and Wash fights down a wince. Damn it. They can’t already be fucked. 

“We weren’t.” Sinclair doesn’t sound fazed. “He set off one of the motion trackers. You know how faulty the alarms on the old ones are. Only caught it cause I was looking at the readings when he did it.”

Wash holds his breath. They can’t really be buying that. There’s no way. They’re already screwed. These pirates can’t be that gullible, it’s not--

“Yeah, keep forgetting to replace that shit.” The pirate takes a few steps back, hand rubbing at his helmet sheepishly. “Don’t tell them that when you bring him in, yeah? Say--I dunno, you found him when you were out trying to find supplies or some shit, they never check the roster for that.”

“Sounds good. Are we alright to head in?”

The pirate nods, stepping back further and motioning to the others grouped near the gate. “You’re all clear, just make sure you get that asshole locked up fast. Don’t need anymore fucking surprises today.”

“More surprises?” Sinclair repeats. “We’ve been out of range most of the day. Did something happen?”

_ What the fuck is she doing? We don’t have time for this shit! _

Wash bites at the inside of his cheek as Epsilon shrieks in his head. The worst part is that he doesn’t even disagree. They can’t stand around just chatting up a bunch of pirates, they have to move. But at the same time… if they’re about to head in, they should know what they’re getting into. He thinks as much at Epsilon as loudly as he can. 

“Had a little trouble with one of the prisoners.” The pirate crosses his arms over his chest and makes an irritated noise. “Apparently they tried making a break for it earlier. Didn’t get too far, but Control wasn’t too happy about it.”

That doesn’t bode well. Wash has seen the list of prisoners a few dozen times and he can think of exactly one person who would have tried something like escaping from an intensely guarded facility with almost zero chance of success.

_ Oh goddamn it, Sarge.  _

Epsilon’s on the same page as him and that doesn’t make Wash feel any better. He shuts his eyes tightly and takes a few long breaths through his nose. There’s nothing they can do about that. He just has to hope that Control didn’t decide to eliminate the problem. Maybe they’d take pity on an old man with just one leg. 

As if people paying for planetary genocide know the meaning of the word ‘pity’. Wash takes another slow breath and tries to force his nerves to settle and the knot in his chest to unwind. It doesn’t do much, but there’s a soft pulse from Epsilon, like he’s trying to help. 

“Any idea what could have made them do that?” Sinclair doesn’t sound the least bit shaken. Maybe it’s better she’s the one doing the talking. 

The pirate shrugs. “No clue. I heard Control was tossing around ideas about how to get information out of them. Apparently they’ve all been pretty tight lipped so far, wouldn’t take any of the details to work with us, so they’re gonna go another way.”

“Huh, well, I wouldn’t want to be one of them, right now.” 

“Right? Bet they’ll at least be happy to have more company before Control gets to them.” The pirate laughs and motions them forward. “Go ahead in, east vehicle bay’s open and waiting.”

“Understood.” 

Locus drives in slow and careful. It’s hard to tell with the armor, but Wash is betting his hands are tense, almost ready to break the wheel underneath them. He knows the feeling. As soon as they’re passed the gate, he flexes his hands several times, forcing himself not to yank at the cuffs. Can’t break them yet, can’t give things away. They need to get in and wait for the signal. 

“Guards were posted as expected,” Sinclair says, her voice coming through the radio now. “So there should be groups about that size at all the entrances. Looks like there’s five along this side.”

“If they have no one patrolling near the temple, that may complicate things for us.” Locus’s voice is low, already sounding discouraged. 

“Tucker and Carolina know what they’re doing.” Wash is firm on that. There’s a soft, warm pulse from Epsilon in the back of his head. “Once they get in position, they’re going to have everyone here looking at them.”

“You better be right about that.” There’s a little bit of a bite to Sinclair’s tone, but she doesn’t argue the point. 

All three of them fall quiet as they drive into the vehicle bay. The only guards nearby are two pirates standing outside the main entrance, who wave them through, not bothering to follow them in. There’s one more pirate inside, but they hardly even glance their way, attention on a motorcycle in front of them. 

That’s at least a little reassuring, maybe most of the guards are stationed outside. The fewer pirates they have to deal with, the better. 

Sinclair gets down from the gunner spot and rounds the side of the car, grabbing Wash roughly by the arm to yank him to his feet. His stumble is half unintentional as she pulls him out of the car. That gets the pirate’s attention and they glance over their way. “Shit, where’d you find that one?”

“Out by the temple,” Locus says, voice somehow even lower and more gravel coated than usual. “We expect Control will want to deal with this one personally.”

“Yeah, no shit. Huh… we should probably get more guys out there.” The pirate awkwardly shuffles on the spot. 

Locus inclines his head in a slight nod as he moves to take Wash’s other arm in a firm grip. “Probably. There could be more where this one came from.”

“Good point. I’m just… gonna see if I can grab a few guys to head out that way. Thanks for the heads up.” The pirate takes their leave quickly and Wash’s sure his stomach is tying itself in knots. 

That has to just be what it seemed. If they had recognized Locus’s voice, they would have done something more or called for backup. That has to be it. They can’t already know. Wash swallows his nerves and lets Sinclair and Locus march him further into the facility.

* * *

No one else questions them as Sinclair leads the way in. There are a few more pirates here and there inside, but more official looking guards as well. Their armor is more sleek and shiny, and they always stand at least several feet away from the pirates. 

“They’ve never seen combat before,” Locus says, voice hushed, even over the radio, hidden away in their helmets. “Professionally trained, but look at the way they’re holding their guns, none of them have fired a shot before in their life.”

“That’s not necessarily a good thing.” Wash frowns a little, glancing over the soldiers Locus points out. “In case of emergency, they might panic and make things worse.”

“My bet is that they’ll be the first ones heading for the exits.” There’s a sharp note of distaste in Sinclair’s voice, her hand shifting a little where she grips Wash’s arm. “They won’t care who’s way they get in if they’re just trying to save their own skins. I talked to a few before--most of them have no idea what Control is even doing here.”

And for a moment, Wash almost pities them, his eyes lingering on a few shiny sets of armor. How are they going to feel when they find out? Knowing they were complicit in all this, that can’t weigh easy on anyone’s consciences, not unless they hired a whole barracks full of Felix clones. Then again, if Control was able to find one of him, there’s probably plenty more where that came from. 

Every step they take feels far too loud, and Wash is sure every guard that looks their way is going to stop them and ask for identification, but none do. It’s too easy. Sinclair leads the way, guiding them through the halls and into a large elevator in what has to be the center of the building. 

The doors shut behind them and Sinclair moves to examine the strange panel on the wall that seems to have a keypad instead of the usual numbered buttons. “They’re on the seventh floor, but… they’ve locked it down.”

“I assume you know a way around that?” There’s the slightest hint of a threat to Locus’s voice. 

“Of course. My override still works,” Sinclair says, punching in a rapid combination. The pause is too long. Wash holds his breath. A small light above the keypad flashes green and the elevator begins to move, rising quickly. 

Wash exhales slowly as he watches the number tick up. They’re in. It’s working. Price’s plan is actually working. 

The elevator comes to a stop and the door dings open. Six guards greet them and Wash hates every part of this plan. 

For a second, no one moves.

“Excuse us.” Sinclair breaks the silence as she moves back to Wash’s side, taking his arm roughly. “Got a prisoner we thought Control might be interested in.”

Locus steps forward first. “Stand aside.”

They aren’t going to. They’re going to ask for some kind of identification or recognize Locus’s voice. Wash forces his hands into fists to stop his fingers twitching. Don’t break the cuffs. Don’t give them away.

One of the guards steps up. His armor isn’t as shiny as some of the others. He stands more like a soldier, head tipping to one side slightly and Wash can almost feel him putting them all under a microscope. “Yes… we received word that he’d been captured. You found him by the temple, correct?”

“Yes sir.” Sinclair stands at attention and Wash wants to hiss at her not to. The pirates don’t stand that straight. And at least a few of the other guards are watching them too closely. Now that he looks at them, these ones look far more composed than the shiny Control guards down below. They don’t hold their weapons like they’re afraid of them and their armor is neat and well kept, but it lacks the shine of something brand new and never touched. 

The guard turns to her now, fingers drumming on his rifle. “How long ago was this? Were there signs of any others out there?”

“Not that we saw, but he could have had backup. We thought it best to bring him straight here.”

“Right. Well, good thinking there. But you can leave patrols of that area to us now. We were just about to head there, but… you know, I don’t remember the men at the gates relaying your information. What are your names?”

Oh god. Wash tenses, hands poised to break the cuffs. He doesn’t have any weapons on him, had to play the prisoner convincingly, but Locus has a few extra. If he moves quick, he could probably grab one and fire off a few shots before the guards realize what’s happening. If he just--

“Jenny Sinclair,” Sinclair says, as though that’s not giving everything away. Wash doesn’t breathe. He can feel Locus’s hand tighten slightly on his arm, going just as still. 

That seems to puzzle the guard, his head tipping to one side. “Right… Sinclair. I thought you had gone.”

“Scavenging run, sir. Some of us at the gates wanted to see if we could find better weapons further out.” Her voice doesn’t waver, but Wash can feel her hand shaking where she grips his arm. 

The quiet is deafening. 

After too long a pause, the guard nods. “Yes, yes I did hear about that. Right, well, take him to Control then get him locked away. With the last escape attempt, the last thing we need is him giving us anymore trouble. Clear the way.”

The guard motions behind him and the other five step to the side, giving them room to pass. At the rate this is going, Wash is never going to to stop holding his breath for more than a goddamn minute. 

_ I can’t believe they bought that. _

Wash is right there with Epsilon on that one. He still doesn’t believe it as Sinclair and Locus lead him past the guards, unable to shake off the feeling that several pairs of eyes follow them all the way around the corner. 

“That was risky,” Locus says in a low undertone, sounding far from pleased.

“I had to say something, and I didn’t see either of you coming up with any big ideas. Price was right about the Control guards, I’m sure none of them have even looked at the names of the pirates,” Sinclair says, tone a little snappy, as though she doesn’t appreciate being questioned by Locus of all people. Which… she probably doesn’t. 

Maybe Wash should have tried harder to pick a different team arrangement. Stuck between these two, he honestly isn’t sure which is worse at the moment, and if they go at each other, that’s not a fight he wants to break up. But they have to keep moving, so he shifts in their grip. “Which way now, Sinclair? You think they’re in the main viewing room?”

That seems to snap her out of it at least and she nods. “That’s where they were last time I was here. They like to watch.”

There’s an acidity to her tone that could melt glass. Did they make her watch? Did they know who she was and call her in to let her look at the cameras all over the city they’re slowly tearing to pieces?

Wash fights down a wave of sympathy. He can’t afford to feel that, not now, not toward her. Not toward either of them honestly. They all have to stay focused. 

* * *

Control is in the viewing room, just as expected, but it’s monitors that catch Wash’s eyes first. The room has eight walls, most of which are covered in large screens, each displaying different camera feeds, some from the city outside, others from inside the facility itself. In the middle of the room is a circle of waist high control panels, probably meant to control the cameras. It all looks just the way Sinclair said, but there’s one screen in particular that nearly makes Wash stumble.

Right between a view of the outer city wall and a shot of an empty street is a room that has to be inside the facility featuring several bound, familiar figures. Wash counts quickly in his head. They’re all still there. All still breathing as far as he can see. 

They have a chance. 

Wash isn’t entirely sure how many members of Control there are, both Sinclair and Price had never figured out the exact numbers, but they had guessed it wasn’t more than ten at the very top of things. 

Eight official looking people mill about the room, most of them sitting in expensive looking chairs watching the screens, though a few mill about, examining the control panels. The two Wash remembers seem to be in the middle of a discussion, though they stop when the door opens looking toward the three of them, several other members following suit. At least they don’t all turn at once, they’re already robotic enough. 

Locus and Sinclair pull him up, stopping a few feet short of the circle of panels. The woman looks at them expectantly, eyebrows rising as she looks over Wash. “My, and who have you brought us today?”

“Agent Washington,” Sinclair says. 

“Well, yes, I can see that, my dear. I meant him.” And she points at Locus and Wash feels his heart drop into his stomach and dissolve. Fuck. 

“What do you mean, sir?” Sinclair’s still holding it together, sounding only a tiny bit surprised. “That’s just Garcia, he’s been here for ages.”

The woman smiles the way a snake would, and he can almost feel the coils wrapping around them tight and starting to squeeze. “Oh? I don’t remember seeing that name on the list. And for that matter, I’m fairly sure your name was taken off recently as well, Jenny. You really shouldn’t take so long with your… supply runs.”

Shit shit shit. She knows. They know. 

Wash takes a breath. “Which part gave us away?”

He can feel Sinclair and Locus staring into the sides of his head. There’s no point trying to keep up the rouse. But if he can just keep her talking…

“Well, we can watch the gates from here, you know? Locus, I’m surprised at you, did you honestly think we wouldn’t notice?” The woman clicks her tongue disapprovingly and shakes her head. 

The man beside her laughs. “So hard to disguise that voice of yours, isn’t it? I can’t imagine why the people of Chorus would send you of all people. You know, when you left us, we expected them to have you executed. Poor fools, did they really think they could trust you with this… whatever it is? I’m assuming a misguided rescue attempt? Or perhaps an assassination?”

“Something like that,” Wash says, half muttering it, but it’s loud enough to get several people laughing, heads tossed back like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

“You know how many guards we have.” The woman cocks her head to one side. “If we call for them, they’ll be here in an instant, and even if you do manage to kill all of us, do you think they’ll let you leave this building unharmed? Or was the idea to sneak Washington in with the rest of the prisoners and have him sneak the rest of them out somehow?”

Wash opens his mouth and then shuts it, because one of the screens catches his eye, a familiar pair of aqua colored shapes moving across it. The corner of his lips curl up. “Actually, no. We’re just the distraction.”

Even though he suddenly knows what Tucker means when he says he’s too dramatic, Wash can’t help grinning beneath his helmet when what sounds like several dozen alarms go off at once. All the members of Control turn to the screens in alarm. The woman sucks in a sharp breath. “They’re going for the temple--”

And Wash breaks his cuffs as the guards charge in and all hell breaks loose. 

Turning on the spot, Wash grabs the gun from Locus’s hip and turns, firing several shots, forcing the rushing guards back. There aren’t many, just as planned. Wash can see on the screens nearly all the guards and pirates rushing out of the building, hopping into jeeps to make for the temple. As long as Carolina and Tucker can get inside and at least slow the flow of people breaking in, they should be fine. They’re on this own now. 

Wash moves with Sinclair and Locus, darting back toward the ring of panels. Sinclair vaults over to his left and clocks the man hard in the temple, sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap and Locus makes short work of anyone who gets too close. Turning to one of the main panels, Wash pushes at the controls, eyes flicking to the screens. 

“Epsilon, you know what to do.”

“On it!” Epsilon’s hologram appears and flickers out just as fast and Wash feels him leave his head in a rush. “All your base are belong to me, motherfuckers.”

The woman, who’s trying to keep her distance from an ever approaching Sinclair, looks around as if for the source of Epsilon’s voice. “Who is that? What are you doing? What is--”

She cuts herself off when a video begins playing over each and every screen, the recorded call starting at the beginning, her own smiling face looking back at her. “Oh son of a bitch.”

“Language,” Epsilon says, flickering into being again. “But this is nothing, just wait until Carolina and Tucker get that temple going. Then this bad boy gets beamed out to any listening ears in the fucking galaxy.”

Wash leaves the gloating to Epsilon, he’s probably better at it anyway, and turns his attention back to the next group of guards making their way through the door. He jumps back over the row of panels, rolling when he hits the floor to miss the bullets shot his way by inches and firing back half a dozen more when he stops himself and springs up. Somewhere to his side he hears a guard let out a shriek just before Locus piledrives them into the wall. 

He ducks under an incoming bullet and then moves back to dodge the fist that follows it, one of the guards deciding they don’t want to bother with reloading. Wash gets a knee in the guard’s gut and drives his elbow into their windpipe. They cough and sputter as he knocks the gun from their hands and sends them to the floor after a sharp blow to the side of their helmet. 

Breathing hard, Wash looks over his shoulder. Most of the guards are out or double back, the members of Control scattered and terrified. Good. He turns to Locus. “Round up Control, get them in the corner, I don’t want anyone leaving.”

“Understood.” Locus doesn’t hesitate, quickly herding the suddenly much less self-assured bureaucrats into the corner. Most of them don’t put up much of a fight, though a few do shoot him scathing looks and a couple less than polite comments. Wash waits for him to get all but the still unconscious man in the ring of panels away before turning to Sinclair. 

“Can you handle getting the prisoners out? Radio for backup as soon as you get near the gates.”

She nods and makes for the door.

“We’re gonna have more incoming, Wash,” Epsilon says, and Wash glances at the screens for a second despite himself. No camera views there, just the video, but Epsilon’s monitoring all the feeds. 

“What’ve you got?”

“Squad coming in from the east side. I think I can lock down the elevators from here though.” A few of the screens on the consoles flicker, but Wash decides to leave Epsilon to it. 

“Right, just make sure to use the elevator to get Sinclair and the prisoners out.” He gets a little nod from Epsilon before turning to Locus. “More guards coming up on our east side. Watch the door.”

Locus moves to follow the order instantly, footsteps already thundering in the hall outside. Readying his gun, Wash crouches half behind the panel. “Locus, open the door on my mark--now!”

Locus slams the controls for the door and it slides open with a whoosh, catching the guards outside by surprise. Bullets fly through the air and Wash has to duck as a few zero in on him. The shots miss, him, but he hears a worryingly close thud and a a few soft curses from Epsilon. Risking a glance behind him Wash swears under his breath, watching one of the panels start to spark and sizzle. “Epsilon, did we lose anything important?”

“No, no, I think we’re okay. I’ve still got communications open and most of the camera feeds, but lemme see what that one was doing.”

The hologram flickers out and Wash turns his attention back toward the guards. Locus makes pretty short work of them, but Wash fires over his shoulder to stop one advancing while he deals with two more. Looking to him, Locus gives the slightest of nods before turning to finish off the last one. They’re a better team than Wash wants them to be. He does his best not to think about it as he stands up and looks for Epsilon. “Any problems?”

The hologram flickers a few times as it reappears and somehow that already feels like a bad sign. “Uh, yeah, I think we might have a problem--”

The problem becomes much more obvious when Wash gets six pings on his radio at once. He opens a channel to Sinclair first. “Problems, I’m guessing?”

_ “Good guess. We made it to the exit, but all the doors are locked down, can’t get them open.” _

Wash curses under his breath and looks to Epsilon, who shuffles his tiny feet. “The lockdown stuff is what got fried. We can still get the doors open, but you’ve gotta do it from here manually on that panel there.”

Nodding, Wash moves to the other panel, opening another channel as his fingers fly over the controls. “I’m working on it, Grif.”

_ “Hey, I didn’t even say anything yet. But seriously, what’s the hold up? Sinclair said she got everyone, where the fuck are they?” _

“I’m working on getting the doors open, just give me another minute. How are things out there?”

_ “I mean, they’re not great. But I think Carolina and Tucker pulled most of the pirates. Still got an assload of Control’s guards out here though. These guys fucking suck.” _

“Just hold position a little longer, I’m getting the door open--now, alright, that should do it," Wash says, hammering the controls and forcing himself not to cross his fingers for luck.  


_ “Where, I don’t see--oh shit, yeah. Simmons, three o’clock, that’s Sarge! We got ‘em, Wash!” _

“Good, now load up and get them out, have Jensen and Tobin circle around and come back in five minutes for Control.”

_ “Got it.” _

The channel clicks off and Wash immediately opens another, answering Carolina. “How’s it going out there, boss?”

_“Slow.”_ Even over the radio he can hear her spit out the word through gritted teeth. _“Tucker’s in and getting the temple active, but I don’t know how much longer he’s gonna need.”_

Wash sucks in a breath through his teeth, fingers drumming on the panel in front of him. “Just radio in as soon as he gets it going. We’re holding up alright here, but--”

“Washington!”

“Wash behind you--”

Locus and Epsilon cry out at once, but by the time Wash whirls around, it’s too late. The crumpled man that had been left on the floor must have come to, and Wash turns just in time to see his hand crash through a small glass case on one panel, hitting the red button inside. A swift blow to the side of his head sends the man back down. He doesn’t move again, but that doesn’t stop the red lights that suddenly flash or the alarms that begin to blare endlessly. 

“Wash…”

“Epsilon, tell me that alarm isn’t what I think it is,” Wash demands, knowing he can’t. 

It had come up a few times in planning. Apparently when it looked like war was imminent, the people of Chorus had started ringing their own buildings to self-destruct in the case that they were invaded by hostile forces from the other side, both eliminating their enemies and protecting any secrets they didn’t want falling into the wrong hands. 

Sinclair’s family had been no different, and the self-destruct mechanism had been discussed as a potential option in several of Price’s contingencies, but in the context of how to use it in their favor. This option isn’t one that any of them had wanted to account for. 

Wash’s fingers fly over the control panels, trying to find a way to shut it off, the system making soft, furious noises at him at every attempt. “Epsilon, shut this thing down, now!”

“I’m trying! Just give me a second!” The hologram flickers out and the control panels hum, though that’s nothing compared to the sound of the alarms. Above the smashed in glass case, a small screen that looks like a digital clock suddenly comes to life, numbers ticking down. It’s not a big number. 

Wash curses, frantic. Alright, don’t panic, don’t panic. Just get it done. He opens a channel to Carolina again. “Boss, we’ve got a situation here. How’s the temple coming?”

_ “Almost there. What’s the situation?” _

He has to fight down a wince. “Well… lets just say that if you can get the temple working a lot faster, that would be great.”

_ “Wash--” _

_“I got it!”_ Tucker’s voice is somewhere in the background, but not far. _“Is that Wash? Tell him to send the shit!”_

_ “Hold on, Tucker. What situation, Wash?” _

“Epsilon is handling it,” Wash says, sounding about ten times calmer than he feels as he moves to a different panel, manually taking over for Epsilon. “I’m sending the message now--there.”

_ “We’re getting it, alright, it’s gonna take about a minute for the temple to process and then… a bit longer to send, but we can hold the temple till then. How are things on your end?” _

“Don’t worry about that. Just make sure it gets out.” Wash clicks his radio off before Carolina can respond. He can’t tell her. He can’t worry them with this, Tucker’ll leave the temple and get himself killed trying to rush the facility to get them out. And anything he tries to say to him now is just going to sound like a goodbye and he can’t say that to him.

So he takes a breath, shuts his eyes, and says it in his head. 

A laugh pulls him out of his thoughts and he turns sharply to look at the people huddled in the corner. Some of them look alarmed by the still flashing lights, but most look unsurprised, a few even look smug, but none moreso than the woman, who tosses her head back as she laughs again, teeth looking strangely pointy in the flashing lights. 

Locus is over to the corner in an instant, standing over her menacingly. “You think this is funny?”

“Oh, dear, it’s hilarious,” she says, not looking the least bit concerned as she glances up at him. “Send your message out if you like, but you can’t save yourselves."

“How do we stop the self destruct?” Wash grips the edge of the panel before him tightly.

She shoots him a cold look, still smiling. “You really think I’m going to tell you? Why don’t you have Jenny try one of her little codes to stop it?”

Wash grist his teeth. Epsilon knows Sinclair’s codes, she’d given him all of them, even the one to stop the self-destruct, but… if it was going to work, he would’ve stopped it by now. “You changed it, didn’t you?”

“Well, at least one of you has a few brain cells left. Of course we changed it. Did you really think we would be that stupid?”

“What is it?” She just laughs again and Wash slams a hand down on the panel. “Look, you realize you’re all trapped in here with us, right? If this building goes, we’re all dead.”

“And? If we don’t die here, the people of Chorus will have us executed or sent off to the UNSC to rot in prison once your little message gets out. You may have won this war, but every battle has its casualties, Agent Washington. I would’ve thought you would know that by now.”

It takes a monumental amount of effort not to reach for his gun. No. No there has to be a way. He turns back to the computer panels, eyes catching the countdown despite his best efforts. Four minutes. 

“Epsilon, any luck?” he asks, trying not to sound desperate.

_“Sort of.”_ Epsilon doesn’t bother projecting himself, his voice drifting out of a speaker somewhere in the room. _“Okay, not really. The system locked me out, I guess they’ve got failsafes for AIs fucking with their shit. All I can do is slow it down, but as soon as I’m out of here it’s gonna start ticking again.”_

“Fuck.” Wash nearly tears off his helmet just to drag his fingers through his hair. Before he gets a chance, the door opens as Sinclair rushes in.

“What the hell happened?” She sounds more angry than panicked. That’s probably better. Anger is better for staying focused. 

“The self-destruct was activated, Epsilon’s slowing it down, but we can’t stop it--look, just get them out of here,” he says, waving a furious hand at the members of Control in the corner. “I’ll hold the doors open.”

Sinclair hesitates. Wash can see her hands twitching at her sides, but then she nods and moves into action, directing them out of the room none too gently. At least she’s listening. 

Wash takes a breath and moves to the panel controlling the doors. “Epsilon, can you give me eyes on Sinclair? Just one screen.”

_ “Got it.” _

One of the screens flickers to show Sinclair leading Control down the hallway. Wash opens every door they come to automatically and readies the elevator. He’s probably focusing too hard on that. It makes it easier not to think about what has to happen next. 

“What is the plan here, Washington?” Locus’s voice almost makes him jump, his footsteps so quiet Wash hadn’t even heard him. 

Or maybe he’s too busy trying not to think about what’s going to happen as soon as they pull Epsilon out of the computer. Someone has to stay back and hold the doors, Epsilon can’t do it himself and Wash can’t let him stay in there. He takes a breath. 

“As soon as they’re out, you take Epsilon in your storage unit and run for it, I’ll hold the doors.”

Epsilon squawks indignantly and Locus huffs, making it clear what he thinks of that plan. “No.”

“That’s an order, Locus--”

“One I won’t follow. You should be the one to take the AI and leave.”

Wash grits his teeth. He can’t fight about this, he has to stay focused. “This isn’t up for debate. I’m leading the mission, and I say you take him and go.”

The lights paint the walls red and the alarms are blaring inside his skull and he just has to keep the door open. He won’t see Tucker again. Or Caboose. Or Carolina. They won’t have that home Caboose wanted and he’s never going to see Grif and Simmons get married and he has to accept that because he isn’t letting Locus do this. There’s still time for him to serve, mistakes for him to atone for. 

This is the easy way out and he doesn’t get to take it. 

Sinclair gets Control to the door and Wash lets out a breath. One thing taken care of at least, which brings him back to the other problem as Locus grabs at his shoulder and wrenches him to the side, forcing him meet his eyes. Or where he thinks his eyes are. 

“What are you going to accomplish killing yourself here?” Locus’s voice is low, almost dangerously so, the warning clear in his tone. Wash doesn’t want to know what he’s warning about, but he takes a step back, eyes flicking to Locus’s hands, half expecting an attack. 

“Someone has to stay. Epsilon can’t hold the self-destruct sequence forever, and I’m not letting all three of us die in here.”

“Then you take him and go. It makes more sense for--”

“For you to sacrifice yourself?”

Locus growls low in his throat. “This isn’t sacrifice, it’s practicality. You’re of more use than I am. You are making this unnecessarily complicated. Or are you still so desperate to sacrifice yourself as you were back in the crash site?”

Wash bites into the meat of his cheek and takes a breath through his nose. “That’s not what this is. I’m not--we can’t both make it out of here, you realize that, right?’

“I do, and I know that my survival won’t help the people of this planet.”

“And you’re so concerned about that now?”

A noise of frustration rushes out of Locus as he takes a step forward. “Aren’t you the one that told me I needed to try? How am I supposed to do that if you stand in my way?”

“This isn’t trying!”

_ “Hey guys--” _

“Then what would you call it?”

“Giving up.”

_ “Seriously, Wash--” _

“I’m not giving up. You’re being irrational and--”

Wash doesn’t find out what else he’s doing because there’s a loud clang as the butt of a rifle smashes into the side of Locus’s head and he goes limp. Moving on impulse, Wash barely manages to stop him hitting the floor. He looks up sharply, half expecting another attack. 

Sinclair stands behind Locus, chest heaving like she’s just run a marathon. For a second, Wash just blinks at her. “How did you get back up here? I wasn’t running the elevator.”

She takes a few heaving breaths. “I took… the fucking stairs. Now get him out of here... before I put both of you out… of my misery.”

Shoulders still rising and falling as she pants, Sinclair moves to the panel. “I’ll hold the doors. Go.”

But Wash can’t stop staring at her. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because your people need you,” she says, a touch of venom in her voice. “And I don’t want him playing the big hero. If either of you die here, no one’s going to ever stop talking about how wonderful you must have been. Locus doesn’t get to be a martyr, and neither do you.”

“What about you?”

Sinclair goes still for a moment, though she still doesn’t look at him. “People can remember me however they want, that isn’t why I’m doing this. Just let me do this. You owe me that much.”

Wash wants to bite back that he doesn’t owe her anything. But he remembers, remembers not giving a damn about her or this planet. If anyone’s going to play the martyr…

He takes a breath and shifts, pulling Locus over his shoulders. He’s heavy, but Wash can still move. “Epsilon, how much time?”

_“Three minutes if we go now.”_ Epsilon isn’t questioning the arrangement and Wash is half sure there’s a strange sense of approval when he hops into his head. _“Lets fucking move.”_

Wash nods and moves as fast as he can for the door, sparing only a moment to glance back at Sinclair. “Thank you for this.”

She doesn’t look, up, but there’s a faint nod. “If you see Park,” she says, eyes still on the door controls, “tell her… tell her I’m not her fault. I made my choices. Now would you go?”

Not sparing another moment, Wash sprints as fast as he can for the elevator. Locus is like a sack of bricks, heavy and immobile across his shoulders. Skidding into the elevator, Wash barely manages to avoid crashing into the wall. He tries to count the seconds in his head. That’s got to be at least a minute. Two to get to the exit and--Epsilon helpfully throws up a map on his HUD. 

Eyes shut, he tries to catch his breath. The red lights are still flashing inside the elevator, a helpful monitor on the wall instructing him to make his way to the exit in an orderly fashion if he’s an employee, or to prepare for immediate termination if he’s a member of the New Republic. Charming. 

As soon as the elevator stops and the doors open, he sprints out, nearly toppling over twice as he rounds corners too fast. The exit, almost to the exit. One minute left. Almost there. 

His feet hammer down the hallway and into the vehicle bay. There’s a jeep just past the door, he recognizes pink armor and doesn’t bother slowing down until he’s throwing himself and Locus into the back. Locus weighs a million pounds as he crushes him into the back, but Wash forces himself up enough to look at the stunned Bitters in the driver’s seat. “Go, go, go!”

Bitters doesn’t need to be told twice and slams on the gas. They’re still ten feet from the city wall when the building goes behind them. Wash throws an arm around Locus and another toward Donut in the passenger’s seat, stopping both of them from lurching out as the shockwave rocks the car up onto two wheels. Bitters curses, but manages to right them again, heading for the gate. 

Donut leans over the back of his seat, still holding Wash’s hand tightly. “You two okay back there?”

“Yeah… yeah I think we’re good. Did everyone else make it out?”

“I think so. Carolina and Tucker should be regrouping with us in five minutes. Oh um… there was one thing,” he says, sounding suddenly less chipper. “Kimball wanted to talk to you, she’s on the Armonia channel.”

Nodding, Wash sinks into the back, taking a moment to try to catch his breath before opening the channel he now sees blinking at him. “General Kimball, the mission was a success, we--”

_“I know, Wash. Good work out there,”_ she says, voice strangely sober for the discussion at hand. _“Carolina already reported back. There’s something else though.”_

Wash blinks, adrenaline slowly fading from his system as they leave the city behind. “What? Did something happen?”

The other shoe drops. _“Price is gone.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost to the end! I think there's probably just going to be one or two more chapters and then the epilogue, so I want to say a huge thanks to everyone who's stuck around this long! I'm a little sad to say goodbye to Sinclair, but I've always known her story would end here. The last few chapters have been a little slow, so I hope there's enough here to make up for that!


	45. Can Heal Almost Anything

Wash can’t listen to the message Price left for him more than once, but the words still echo around his head.

_ Agent Washington, by the time you receive this, I will be gone, and though you have every reason to do otherwise, I ask that you do not look for me. I have no ill will toward the people of Chorus. To the contrary, I have found them to be friendly and hospitable despite the circumstances. They do not deserve what has happened to them. And there is nothing I can do to make amends for my participation. I will not pretend my freedom was worth a planet full of lives. _

_ I have taken a motorcycle, which you will find left near the outskirts of Typhe. I will not be there when you discover it. You may send search parties if you wish, but you are well aware of my abilities to cover my tracks. I do not doubt that you would eventually be able to find me if you scoured the planet, but doing so would be a waste. No punishment you may wish to inflict will change anything that either of us have done. I know that it is easy to see me as the enemy, the last foothold of Project Freelancer to eliminate, but will my capture or death truly bring you peace? _

_ We both know that you have already begun to find that in spite of me. I cannot apologize for my part in what happened to you, Agent Washington as we both know that my doing so would mean less than nothing. But I am pleased, whether you believe me or not, to see that you have begun to recover. I hope you continue to do so. _

_ I know you mean to deactivate the temple confining ships to this planet. Once you do, a small ship will leave the planet with only one passenger on board. Let it go and I will never trouble you again. My only goal is survival, something I am quite sure you can understand. However, I know you have found something better than survival alone, and I envy you that. As for me, I am still searching.  _

_ I have no right to ask anything of you, I know that, but if I may make on request it is this: let me go. Let me disappear now and I will never darken your doorstep again. The planet of Chorus will recover and Aiden Price will be nothing more than a whisper that haunts old nightmares. Let me be forgotten. Let me be nothing but a bad dream.  _

It’s too much to ask and Wash doesn’t want to believe a word… but he knows the Counselor too well to doubt him. If he wanted a foothold on Chorus, he would already have one. The message didn’t mention what Price is going to do once he leaves the planet and that can’t be an accident. Wash doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t stop. 

And he’s not surprised that he isn’t the only one having that problem either. 

He nearly runs into a wall when he hears Price’s voice, but it takes less than a second for him to notice the slight tinny quality of a recording coming from a slightly open door. Footsteps quiet, he peeks through the crack in the door, unsurprised to find Carolina on the other side, leaning on a table, glaring at Price’s projected face on the wall across from her. This isn’t the kind of thing he should just listen in on, so Was lightly knocks on the door before heading in.

Carolina doesn’t seem surprised when she glances over at him. She just sighs and hits a button on the recording device on the table that makes Price’s face fade away. Good. It’ll be easier to talk without him there. 

“What do you think?” Carolina doesn’t have to explain any further since Wash is pretty sure her message must have had the same jist as his. 

Letting out a breath, Wash crosses his arms, leaning against the table. It’s a good question. He didn’t know what to think when he first listened to it, and he still doesn’t. So it’s better to just start with the facts. “We don’t have the resources for a planet wide manhunt right now. And even if we did, tracking him down could take months, maybe years.”

Carolina nods slowly. She probably already knows all that, has thought about the the scope and scale of a search like that, how long it would take, how much work it would be. Neither of them have any right to ask the people here to do that for them, not for a vendetta that should’ve died with the rest of Freelancer. 

“Damn it.” She slaps a hand against the table as she turns away, but she sounds more tired than angry. “So we just… let him go?”

“I don’t like it either, but I don’t know what else to do.” Wash sighs, shaking his head. “What would we even do with him if we caught him? Keep him here? Turn him over to the UNSC?”

“No, he’d weasel his way out of that.” Carolina tips her head back, glaring up at the ceiling. “He’d work out some kind of deal with them to get off with a warning, or he’d turn things around and try to drag us down with him. But we can’t just… not do anything…”

“Well, if you’ve got any better ideas, I’m all ears, boss,” he says, shrugging. Carolina shoots him a dirty look that he probably deserves. 

“Why are you acting like this doesn’t bother you?” She sounds suspicious and he can hardly blame her for that. 

“It does bother me, and if I knew Tucker wouldn’t kill me for it, I’d probably already be out there trying to track him down.” Except… except that’s not quite true. Not anymore. “But I also just… I want to be done with it. With him. I don’t want to let him get in my head again. It took me too damn long to get him out the first time around.”

Carolina sighs, face softening a little as she nods. “I know what you mean. It just… I hate that he’s going to get away with everything, but I think we’re a little too old for revenge now, huh?”

Wash snorts, scrunching up his face. “I don’t know why you had to put it like that, we aren’t that old.”

“Oh yeah? Then what’s this?” She reaches for him, pulling at his too long hair that he knows is shot through with streaks of gray here and there. He bats her hands away and she just laughs. 

“No fair, I bet you’re starting to go gray too.” Not that he can tell. She’s red down to the roots right now, must’ve gotten it dyed again fairly recently, trimmed too, though a little messily. Probably did it herself even with the brace she’s got on her wrist right now. 

Both she and Tucker had left the temple a little banged up. With the number of pirates they had been up against, Wash had been amazed they had both gotten out of it so easily. Then again, maybe he should be less surprised that they made such a good team. 

Hands on her hips, she cocks an eyebrow at him. “Tell me where you see any gray, Wash. Take your time, I’ll wait.”

“You just dyed your hair, that’s cheating,” he says, definitely not pouting at all. 

“It’s not cheating, it’s good tactics and careful planning.” The slightly smug smile is probably well earned so Wash just rolls his eyes. 

“Uh huh, whatever you say, boss.” But Wash can’t stop himself smiling as he shakes his head. “So,” he says, hating his own stupid brain for coming back around to the subject, but they really need to just get it over with, “I guess we’re in agreement about Price?”

Carolina sighs, not looking at him as she nods. “I think we are. I don’t like the idea of him out there, and if I ever catch word of him trying anything else--”

“We’ll take care of him then,” Wash agrees. He doesn’t think Price will be quite so bold as to try one of his little experiments anywhere they could hear about it, but the second he does, they’ll handle it. 

“Right.” Carolina frowns for some reason, eyes flicking toward the door. “I should tell Epsilon. Is he still with Tucker?”

Wash has to fight down a wince. Crap. He forgot about Epsilon. There hadn’t been a message left for the AI, which was probably intentional. Epsilon definitely wouldn’t take it well from Price… something Price definitely knew. God, they really are all that predictable, aren’t they? 

“I think he is, but let me talk to him about it, I can handle it if he gets pissed off at me.”

Carolina cocks an eyebrow at him. “And I can’t? He’s going to be pissed at both of us, Wash.”

“I know, but… he’s your partner now. He was mine when Price was… doing what he did best. And we’ve never really talked about it,” he says slowly, wincing a little because he knows they should have. There’s been time, plenty of time now to talk about so many things. But he and Epsilon never seem to have enough words for all of it. That doesn’t mean he gets to just stop trying though. 

Carolina gives him a long look before she slowly nods. “Alright, do what you need to do, but if he starts screaming, I’m not going to bail you out.”

Wash snorts, nodding as he turns to head out. “Fair enough.”

* * *

Epsilon doesn’t scream, but he sure isn’t happy.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Okay maybe he’s screaming a little. 

Wash is suddenly so, so glad he decided to have this talk without Epsilon in his head. He’s in a computer right now. Wash had found him there after checking in with Tucker, apparently Kimball and Doyle had requested Epsilon’s help sifting through all the information suddenly pouring out about Control. It seems that after their little broadcast, a lot of other sources started coming forward that had been too scared to speak out before for one reason or another. Given what Control had been willing to do to get Chorus, Wash can only imagine the kind of threats they could have been tossing around. 

Wash winces, and slowly pulls his hands from his ears when he’s pretty sure Epsilon is pausing to figure out new obscenities to yell. “Epsilon, just listen to me for a minute--”

“What in the fuck were you even thinking? Just letting him go, seriously?! After all the shit he did?” Epsilon’s hologram paces the air in front of Wash’s face. “No, no actually, that’s just fucking perfect! After all the shit we’ve done, you just let him go so he can cause new problems that we’re gonna hafta fucking deal with later! Just what everyone here fucking needs!”

“You’re not listening. Carolina and I talked about it and--”

“Wait, what? Great, so now you two are the only ones that get a say in this? Hey, fucking surprise, Wash, you two weren’t the only ones to make it out of Freelancer! I was there too, asshole! Do you even know all the shit Price did to me? He--”

“Actually, I do,” Wash says, a bit sharper than he means to, but that at least gets Epsilon to shut up. Taking a breath, Wash runs a hand through his hair. He had hoped that they would at least be able to have half of a reasonable conversation before Epsilon started screaming. Why he had his hopes up that high, he doesn’t know. “Look, Epsilon, I’m sorry we didn’t discuss this with you, but we can’t go after him. Not right now, and you know that. We’re stretched thin as it is.”

They’ve got two squads deployed rounding up the last of the pirates, and another headed out to deal with the temple so they can actually get ships off the planet. The UNSC is finally sending aid, but they can’t get anywhere near Chorus without being pulled down, so that’s priority number one. With how long the war’s been going, most supplies are pretty depleted, but they’ve been trying to organize a few smaller scouting parties to see what they can scavenged from cities that were abandoned before they got caught in the crossfire. They barely have enough people for all that, and then there’s the matter of trying to just figure out how to get the planet running again. 

There’s just no time for Price. But… that’s not the important part. Wash sighs and drags a hand through his hair. Epsilon has to hear it from him. 

“Even if we had the people, I still don’t think going after him would be the right move--just listen to me, alright?” Because he knows Epsilon is itching to cut him off. “Do you remember going after the Director?”

Epsilon scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “The fuck kind of question is that?”

Wash fights down the urge to roll his eyes. That won’t help anything. “Carolina told me about it, you know, how… sometimes it’s better to let go.”

“Oh that’s real fucking rich coming from you, Washington.” There’s a bite to Epsilon’s tone that isn’t entirely undeserved. “Since when have you ever let anything go?”

Wash grimaces and forces his hands not to curl into fists. “I guess I have that coming. But look, Epsilon, say… say we do go after Price. Then what? What’s the endgame there?”

“We throw that fucker in jail, that’s what.”

“And what if he gets out? You know he could cut a dozen different deals to get himself out as soon as we put him away.”

Epsilon flickers and wash can almost feel the irritation radiating off his form now as he throws his hands in the air. “Then we just kill that motherfucker! I don’t get why you’re just giving up on this! It’s not that fucking complicated!”

“And?” Wash knows their voices are both rising. Not good. They can’t ever just have a normal fucking conversation. “What then? What good is that going to do?”

“The fuck do you mean what’s it going to do? It’ll stop the fucker hurting anyone else!”

And there’s the problem. The real one. Wash hates himself, but he has to say it. “Killing Price won’t fix you, Epsilon! It won’t make you whole again and you know that!”

For a second, it’s dead quiet. Epsilon flickers twice, arms just hanging there at his sides. “Fuck you, Wash.”

And he flickers out. He’s still in the computer, Wash can see where a little light is blinking in a familiar shade of blue. Sighing, Wash drags a hand over his face and counts to ten in his head, forcing his other hand to unclench where his nails are biting into his skin. Maybe he should just go. Carolina probably should’ve been the one to talk to him about this after all. Or maybe even Tucker or Caboose. 

No… no it has to be him, he can’t just keep walking away. Stepping forward, he glances over the computer for a second before settling on staring at the little blinking light. “I’m sorry, Epsilon. I should’ve have said it like that.”

For a moment, there’s nothing and he’s half sure he’s not getting a response. Wash turns, ready to leave when he hears a faint staticy noise behind him. Epsilon’s projecting himself again when he glances over his shoulder. “Yeah… you shouldn’t have. Dick.”

“I said I was sorry.” Wash slowly turns back around and holds out one hand. 

The hologram flickers for a second and the light blinks twice and then goes out. The familiar feeling settles into the back of his head as Epsilon jumps to his implants. He can’t project like this, but at least they’re alone so no one can see Wash talking to himself. “You aren’t broken, Epsilon, you don’t need to be fixed. What I mean was--”

_ I know what you fucking meant _ , Epsilon says, but there’s no bite to it. He sighs and Wash can feel it tingle in the back of his head.  _ And I didn’t say you were wrong. About any of it. I just… I just fucking hate that he gets to get away with all of it, y’know? _

“I know. Trust me, I don’t like it either, but… it’s not going to make things any better if we try to track him down now. We can’t undo everything he did, no one can.” Wash presses a hand to the back of his neck, covering his implants almost protectively. “All we can do is keep going and not let him hurt us anymore.”

_ I guess. That just--it doesn’t feel like a win, y’know? _

Wash laughs, he can’t help it. “I don’t really think there’s a way to win here, Epsilon. But… if we can move on and be more than he tried to make us--more than he thought we could be after what he did, then at least he won’t get be hanging over our heads forever. The way we win is by forgetting about him.”

_ Yeah, still doesn’t seem like a win without some kind of explosion. But fine, whatever. I guess that’s better than nothing.  _ Despite his words, there’s a little warm feeling that creeps over Wash, enough to know that he’s at least on the right track to making things better. 

Shaking his head, Wash lets out a sigh. “I think I’ve had enough explosions for a lifetime, thanks. So… are you okay with this?”

_ Eh. not really. But whatever. I’ll get over it, I guess. Can you at least run me over to Carolina so we can talk shit about Price? _

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “And you can’t do that with me, why?”

Epsilon scoffs.  _ Wash, please, your shit talk has nothing on Cee’s. This is a job for the professionals.  _

“Alright, alright, I guess I can’t argue with that.” Wash snorts and pulls out his datapad sending off a quick message to Carolina. He gets one back saying she’s helping Kimball in her office and starts making his way there. In his head, Epsilon is quiet, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. 

There’s some things he and Epsilon are never going to have again, that easy back and forth he has with Carolina or the natural places they fit into with Tucker and Caboose. There are places still to jagged in his head for Epsilon to ever fit into them again. They won’t ever be partners again, but maybe they can be something close to friends.

* * *

They aren’t fighting anymore, but there’s still so much to do, too much. Control is being held in one of the old armory buildings until they know what to do with them. The UNSC is coming, but they still can’t touch down and Kimball’s had about a dozen conversations trying to work out relief supplies, none of which seem to get very far once they hit the point that no ships can actually land on the planet yet. After the first squad had tried getting the corrupted temple deactivated and failed, another had been sent out with Tucker and his sword to see if that would do the trick. 

Wash sees him off and frowns when he notices Tucker’s still moving his left arm a little stiffly, lightly catching his hand. “I thought you said Grey cleared you for this?”

“She did.” Tucker’s already huffing like he expected this, his eye roll obvious with his helmet still tucked under his arm. “My arm’s fine, dude, got my shoulder back where it should be and everything.”

The injury hadn’t been major when Tucker and Carolina had regrouped with them on the way back to Armonia, just a dislocated shoulder, which Grey had taken care of quickly enough, though the strain Tucker had put on himself beforehand had made Grey keep him in the hospital for another few days, if only to make sure that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt himself worse. It seems as though he’s stuck to that, but… it still seems wrong sending him out again so soon. 

Wash sighs, shifting his hand in Tucker’s so he can give a firm squeeze. “Alright, just… be careful out there, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” But Tucker squeezes his hand back and leans in to bump his forehead against Wash’s. “You just try to take some breaks while I’m gone, alright? I told Caboose that if you work for more than six hours in a row, he’s gotta drag you out for air for a while.”

“How thoughtful,” Wash says, snorting, but he kisses Tucker briefly before stepping back to watch him head for the ship. “Don’t forget the check in times.”

Tucker waves him off and Wash is pretty sure he rolls his eyes again, but one he hops up into the pelican, he waves out the back until it closes up, hiding him from view. Wash watches until it disappears into the sky, too far to be more than a speck in the distance. He sighs and turns, freezing as he spots a tall, but all too familiar figure headed out of the hanger. He hadn’t even known Locus was there. He isn’t supposed to be. 

The situation there is… complicated. Locus isn’t confined to a cell like Control, but his armor and weapons are gone and he isn’t getting them back. Not until Doyle and Kimball can come to some sort of decision on what to do with him. So Locus has been sticking to the shadows where he can, when he’s not tucked away into the room he’s taken in the building that the Reds and Blues have claimed once again. No one’s really protested that arrangement too much, although he gets the feeling that Locus could do without Donut knocking at his door at all hours asking if he’d like to have his hair or nails done.

But there are guards at every gate with strict orders to be on watch in case he tries to make a break for it, Doyle had insisted on that matter, which Wash couldn’t blame him for. His own… frustratingly complicated feelings about the man aside, Locus doesn’t get to just walk away from what he’s done here. So far, he hasn’t tried to run, but Wash is fairly sure being stuck in Armonia isn’t sitting well with him. 

So he takes a breath and heads after him. 

Locus isn’t hard to find, though Wash expects he wants to be. People give him a wide berth, dirty looks and dark whispers following him closer than his own shadow. It’s spread quickly that Wash is apparently Locus’s keeper, so he doesn’t even have to ask before people point him the right way.

Wash finds him in the park. It’s one of Caboose’s favorite spots, a little secluded gazebo surrounded by a waist high wall of hedges that could use a good trim. But there’s no sign of Caboose or the usual group of rebels that like to toss around anything they can find on the slightly overgrown grass just beyond the hedges. There’s just Locus, tucked into the corner of the gazebo, eyes on the datapad in his hands. He doesn’t look up as Wash approaches, though from the set of his shoulders, he’s almost certainly already expecting an attack. 

“Agent Washington,” he says, voice monotone. 

“Locus.” Great start there. Wash watches him for a moment, but Locus doesn’t seem interested in going further than that. Of course this is going to be like pulling teeth. Wash sighs and moves to sit on the bench across from the one Locus has claimed for himself. “I saw you in the hanger… were you there to see Tucker off?”

It’s not an entirely impossible thought. Tucker doesn’t seem to like Locus exactly, but from what Wash can tell they have some sort of understanding that he doesn’t want to ask about. He has a feeling it’s Felix related. Or possibly something to do with him, in which case, the less he knows about it, the better. 

Locus doesn’t look up. “Yes. I wanted to speak with him before he left, but… I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“That’s… very considerate.” Wash pauses there, wishing he knew where to go next. Every talk he’s had with Locus since they got back has been the same, silted, awkward, more lengthy pauses than actual words. Even brief attempts at small talk turn long and drawn out. 

Tipping his head back, Wash stares at the roof of the gazebo as if it might have some answers for him. It doesn’t. “We should talk… about what happened on the mission.”

“Should we?” It’s barely a question, Locus’s tone brusque like that’s the last thing in the world he wants to talk about. 

That means Wash can’t just let it drop. “You meant to die back there, didn’t you?”

Locus says nothing for a long moment. Wash is half sure he’s about to leave before there’s a heavy exhale as Locus shuts off his datapad. “My only intent was to complete the mission. Someone had to stay, and of the two of us, it made more sense for it to be me. We both know that.” 

Wash rolls his eyes, but apparently that’s the wrong thing to do, because Locus is finally looking at him and one of his eyebrows rises dangerously. “I assume that’s why you haven’t told Lavernius the details of what happened there yet.”

Fuck. That almost knocks the wind out of Wash as he turns to look at Locus sharply, opening his mouth and then shutting it again. The worst part is that he’s right. Wash knows Tucker’s seen the report he wrote up, which is accurate but he may have… left out a few little details here and there. “Tucker doesn’t need to know.”

Locus’s eyebrow ticks further up and Wash can feel the judgement rolling off him in waves, which isn’t fair. “You don’t think it’s important for him to know how fast you’re willing to sacrifice yourself? Interesting.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I believe I am, actually.” Locus looks away from him, eyes traveling past the hedges over the city around them. “You had something to come back to. Nothing is gained with my survival.”

And Wash hates that he doesn’t have a good argument for that. Because in a way… he can’t fight it. What good is Locus doing being trapped in a city full of people who want him dead? But he can’t just say so. 

“Dying wouldn’t accomplish anything either,” Wash says slowly, trying to pick his words carefully. “If you’re looking for redemption, that’s not--”

“I’m not,” Locus says, cutting in before he can finish the thought. When Wash glances over Locus’s head is bowed, his hands curled into fists into his lap. “I can’t… there isn’t anything that would… I don’t deserve that. But I thought--if I died for this planet that might bring some measure of peace…”

“It wouldn’t be enough.” Wash stands, this feels like a standing conversation and he needs to pace. It’s harder to look at Locus when he’s pacing. “Dying wouldn’t make anything you did to them better.”

“I know.” The words are a low growl. “But neither does living. Nothing I do--nothing I  _ can _ do will change any of it.”

There’s no point arguing that. They’ve gone in this circle before and Wash told him to try. He’s seen Locus trying, on the mission, here in the city, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. Or it doesn’t yet anyway. 

“It’s not going to happen overnight. What you need… what you need is to find things that you can fix here.”

Locus looks at him like he just sprouted a set of wings and tried to fly. “That still wouldn’t change anything.”

“Maybe not, but changing things you’ve done isn’t the point. What matters is just… finding a way to make things better going forward. And that, I think you can do.”

The disbelief is still written all over Locus’s face as he glances around them. “And where am I going to do that? How?”

Wash takes a breath, the idea’s there, but he already knows it’s not one people are going to like. But it’s better than nothing. “You just leave that to me, alright?”

* * *

“I know what I’m asking is a lot, general, but just hear me out.” Wash pauses there, expecting a protest, but all he gets is a raised eyebrow and a very flat look, which throws him off a little. Maybe he should have written down this speech first. 

He had gotten it all fairly well thought out before going to look for Doyle. The general hadn’t been in his office, though after hearing that he was visiting Smith in the hospital, Wash had decided to just wait there until he got back, running the words through his head again and again. It’s going to be a hard sell, he knows that, but he’d be something of a hypocrite if he didn’t even try. 

There had only been a small attempt at small talk before Doyle had wheeled himself behind the desk and asked what it was Wash actually wanted. He hadn’t been unkind, but Doyle knows him well enough by now to know when there’s another shoe about to drop. 

And judging by the look on his face now, it seems as though Doyle would have preferred a bit more small talk. He takes a breath and leans on his desk, hands clasped before him. “Washington, you do realize what you’re asking me, yes?”

“I do. I know.” Wash drags a hand through his hair and almost wants to take it all back. But he can’t. This is important.

“What are your plans for Locus if you won’t even consider this?” No point in beating around the bush about it. “He’s going to be put on trial, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Doyle says it stiffly. They all know the trial is only a formality. He’s guilty and everyone knows it. Putting together any kind of jury would honestly be a joke. That’s probably why it hasn’t happened yet, that and all the other pieces they’re struggling to put in motion to get Chorus back on track. 

“Then let this at least be an option. I’m not saying you just let him go free. And I know--I know some people want him exiled.” It’s a fair thing to want, having a reminder of everything that happened walking and breathing can’t be pleasant, but that won’t fix things. That’s the trouble with just about any punishment. There’s nothing that can be done in return that will outweigh everything Locus did. 

Doyle nods slowly, still frowning. “Many do. However… many more would like to have him executed.”

Wash takes a breath through his nose. “I know. Are you… is that what you want, Doyle?”

“Yes.” Doyle pauses, frown growing. “And no. Putting him out of everyone’s misery seems too great a kindness, especially considering…”

He doesn’t have to explain, Wash had caught up with the general just after they’d gotten back from dealing with Control and told him the situation, how Locus had tried to stay behind. Doyle hadn’t said much, only nodded and given Wash’s hand a squeeze, telling him they would talk about it later. Wash hadn’t pushed the point, Doyle and Kimball both had quite a bit to attend to just then. Honestly, he’s pretty sure this is the first day Doyle’s had even a few hours to breathe. 

He should get more of a break, Kimball too. They should have a moment to celebrate. But there isn’t time. Not yet. Control is caught and going to face punishment, and Locus isn’t going anywhere either. And there’s still so much work for both of them to do, and Wash knows that right now, he isn’t making their load any lighter.

But he wants to change that. 

“That’s what I’ve been thinking, which is why… why I think this might be better for everyone. If he’s in my custody, then you and Kimball won’t have to worry about him. Carolina and I can keep him in line. We’ll make sure he does his part to help rebuild.”

Doyle sighs like a man four times his age. Some of the weight’s gone from his shoulders, but he still looks tired and his mustache is in desperate need of a good trim. But he doesn’t waver the way he used to. “You’re right, Washington… this is quite a lot to ask. I don’t like the idea, but when it comes to Locus I doubt there’s anything I’m going to like.”

He gives Wash a long look, brows knitting together. “Have you discussed this with your friends? How are they going to feel harboring a murderer of Locus’s caliber?”

Wash bites back the laugh of surprise that wants to sneak out. He’s not on Locus’s level, not by a long shot, but given how readily the Reds and Blues took to him… “I haven’t, but I think they’ll be able to handle it.”

Making a crack that it’s Locus he should be worrying about probably isn’t appropriate. That joke is about a thousand years too soon. Maybe he can tell it to Tucker later, he’ll probably like it. 

Doyle sighs again, hands parting so his fingers can drum on the surface of the desk as he thinks for several long moments. “I will think about it and bring the idea to Kimball, but I make no promises. The trial will decide Locus’s fate… but I think I can persuade them to at least hear you out when the time comes.”

That’s better than nothing, and much better than the flat out ‘no’ that Wash had half expected. He inclines his head a little. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

“Of course.” 

Leaning back in his chair, Doyle’s eyes stray to the window. There’s a decent view for only being on the first floor. Things have moved around in the days since the official end of Control. The UNSC troops are to arrive in the next few days, and Chorus needs to appear both in need of aid and capable of putting it to good use. It’s been a difficult balance to strike. There aren’t lines split up by Fed and rebel anymore, there can’t be. They all have to be united, though… that doesn’t seem half as impossible as it once did. 

Doyle and Kimball have both moved their offices. They now share what was once the capital building, Kimball’s office up on the fourth floor along with most of the other very quickly appointed officials, while Doyle is down on the first with most of the meeting rooms, overseeing the training of a dozen new assistants. Wash doesn’t pretend to understand exactly how they’re running things, but he stops by at least once a day to help run meetings where he can. He never thought he would miss training rooms full of unruly young soldiers. Not that they aren’t still unruly, but he can’t exactly order someone to go run twenty laps for mouthing off now.

Wash hesitates for a moment before slowly moving to sink into the chair in front of Doyle’s desk. The conversation before had felt like one he should be standing for… and he had spent a good twenty minutes pacing Doyle’s office before he got there. “How are you doing with… all of this, Doyle?”

“Well enough,” he says, with a slight nod. “You know, I had always thought that the end of the war would feel like a triumph, but honestly… I don’t know quite what to do with myself now. Getting back into the paperwork is comforting in a way. I’d never noticed that it was quite so… endless before.”

Wash nods sympathetically. “It seems like running a planet involves a lot more busy work than I would’ve guessed. At least no one has to fight anymore.”

“Very true, that’s quite a relief. But it leaves us with, well… a planet full of soldiers and not much idea what to do with them. Of course a good deal of them would like to settle down, but I’m afraid I don’t quite know what to tell the ones that don’t.”

And Wash can’t quite fight back a wince at that. “That’s not a problem with easy answers. I suppose Chorus doesn’t really have schools to try to put them through?”

“Not as such no.” Doyle shakes his head and rifles through his drawers, finding a few papers and setting them one the desk for Wash to see. “We had universities once, and I’ve been thinking of trying to get one started again, but well… resources are thin and unfortunately… many of our professors didn’t make it through the war. I’ve written up a letter petitioning the UNSC for some help there, but ah it needs a bit of work first. And we would need appropriate facilities for such things first.”

Nodding, Wash leans forward to look over the papers, brow furrowing a little. “There’s… a lot of proposals here. Are these all things you’re trying to get running now?”

“”Yes, those and… well, a few dozen other plans.” He pulls at the end of his mustache, a wry smile on his face. “Vanessa says I’m spreading myself too thin with all this.”

“I hate to say it, but she probably has a point there.” Wash drops a proposal for a new National Parks program back on top of the others. “These are good ideas, Doyle, but I think you’re going to have to put at least a few of these on the back burner for a while.”

Doyle sighs again, but he doesn’t fight that. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, they say, I suppose it can’t be rebuilt in a week either? I suppose I’m getting rather ahead of myself with all this. Though in my defense, I’ve had some of these plans since the war began. Of course, back then I was just an assistant, you know, hoping to get a job as--oh, I don’t know, a mayor somewhere or a city council member. These were just pipe dreams, but now that I may actually be able to accomplish them… I may be getting in a bit over my head.” 

“Just have to take things one day at a time, Doyle, and… maybe give yourself a few more breaks,” Wash says, even though he’s fairly sure there are a number of people that would argue he’s never taken a break in his life. “I can think of at least a few people who would probably like getting to spend a bit more time with you,” he pauses for a moment, watching Doyle’s face, “how is Andersmith doing, by the way? I don’t think I asked before.”

Doyle’s face softens a little. “He’s on the mend. Emily thinks he should be ready for physical therapy within the month. We’ve ah… we’ve been talking a bit about what we’d like to do when he gets out of the hospital. I know a few of the--er, former rebels have been setting up a little cafe downtown. I think it might be a nice spot for a first date.”

“I bet it would be.” Wash feels the corners of his eyes crinkle a little. It’s weird to be talking about something so normal. That doesn’t seem like the kind of life they should have.

“And yourself?” Doyle cocks an eyebrow when Wash just blinks at him blankly. “I assume you and Captain Tucker haven’t had much time for that sort of thing either, but… well, if you wanted to…”

“Oh.” Wash blinks again, because that hadn’t even come close to crossing his mind. And that probably makes him a terrible boyfriend. Fuck. “I wasn’t really… thinking about that. I guess Tucker might want to…”

And he trails off because he has absolutely no clue what kind of a date Tucker would possible want to go on. He likes movies, Wash knows that much, but there aren’t exactly a whole lot of theaters that haven’t been converted into some kind of armory. This has never been the kind of thing he’s had to worry about before.

A light pat to his hand pulls him out of his thoughts and he looks up with find Doyle watching him with sympathetic eyes. “It’s alright, Washington. I believe settling into peace times will take some getting used to for all of us.”

He isn’t wrong, but there’s something strangely reassuring about the fact that they’re all having trouble. It isn’t just him, the transition isn’t an easy one, for a place like Chorus, it can’t be. Not after everything they’ve been through, after how long they’ve been at war, after all the people they’ve lost.

The conversation winds around for a while, eventually coming closer and closer to the subject Wash knows he’s been dancing around ever since they got back from the mission. But he has to say something, has to ask about her. So he takes a breath, eyes flicking to the door, wishing it wouldn’t be impossibly awkward to get up and shut it. 

“How is… how is Park doing?” he asks slowly, still tiptoeing around the subject. It’s not enough to stop Doyle’s face from clouding over a bit as he sighs and shakes his head. 

“She seems alright, but… I know these last few days have been hard on her. Some of the others too. Whatever else she was… she was a friend to them for a time, several years.” Doyle rests his chin on one hand, eyes growing a little distant. 

Wash nods, biting his tongue, no idea what to say. He had thought, for a brief moment a few days before, of suggesting some kind of memorial, only for him to crush that an instant later. There will be dozens of memorials made in the coming months, he’s already helped organize several of them. But he doesn’t know if there’s a right way to remember Jenny Sinclair.

“She was heroic at the end,” he says eventually. “I don’t think she meant to be, but… I think that’s kind of the point. She wanted to end things on her terms. I think she knew she picked the wrong side, she always knew, but…”

“She had lost too much.” Doyle doesn’t sound sad, just tired. He tips his head back to look at the ceiling. “I imagine she simply wanted it to be over. She lost hope… and I can hardly blame her for that much at least. Many of us did. But I can’t forgive how she acted on it.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Wash says, maybe a little too quickly. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking away from Doyle. Not for the first time, he’s sure he shouldn’t have been the one there with Sinclair. He shouldn’t be the one relaying her last words. “She had a message for Park…”

Wash hasn’t gotten around to delivering it yet. He had broken the news over the radio and found no sign of Park when they’d arrived back at Armonia. With the message from Price waiting for him, Wash had almost forgotten it entirely. By the time he’d remembered, Park had buried herself deep in work and Wash didn’t have a clue how to even begin to approach the subject with her.

“I would offer to relay it for you, but… I expect playing a game of telephone with something like that may lessen the meaning.” Doyle shifts a little in his seat, leaning forward to catch Wash’s eye. “Whatever it was… I’m sure Park would like to hear it.”

Wash bites back his doubts and nods. Why couldn’t Sinclair have had something just… nicer to say? Something more? They were short on time but ‘it wasn’t her fault’ doesn’t seem like nearly enough. He says as much to Doyle, who frowns a little, stroking at his mustache.

“Perhaps, but… Sinclair knows--knew Park better than you or I. She would know what to say. It may not be the right thing, but perhaps it’s what Park needs to hear.”

“Maybe.” Wash sighs, he’s put this off too long. “I guess there’s only one way to find out. Do you know if Park’s...”

“She should be up on the third floor. If you need any ah… assistance, you know where to find me,” Doyle says, the beginnings of a kind smile on his face as he starts shuffling through his paperwork.

Wash nods. “Thank you, general. I might need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few more chapters left! This one was getting pretty long, so I had to split it into two. Because I'm weird about ending on an odd number, I've decided to include a small interlude before the epilogue, but we're almost done! I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's been following along with this story! I'm probably going to be retagging this fic in a bit as the tags it has now are more representative of the first chunk rather than the entire work. Again, a big thanks to everyone who's stuck around this long, I hope this doesn't disappoint.


	46. Been Here All Along

Park isn’t in the office labeled with her name. After a bit of searching, Wash is pretty sure she isn’t anywhere in the building. He finally gets an answer when he nearly runs into a still crutch-bound Adler. Most of the captives Control had been holding weren’t in the best shape when they’d finally gotten them out. Smith had apparently gotten the worst of it after volunteering to take the hits for the others, but Adler had still managed to upset Control enough to end up with her leg in a brace and a few nasty bruises that were just beginning to fade. 

That doesn’t stop her giving Wash a slight smile and a nod when he barely manages to avoid crashing into her. “Looks like you’re in a hurry, Agent Washington.”

“Sort of.” He rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m looking for Captain Park. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her?”

Adler’s brow furrows for a moment. “I didn’t think she was in the office today.”

“Oh?” Well, Wash can’t exactly blame her for that. They could all use a break, though no one else seems to be taking them lately. “Is she taking the day off?”

“No. I think she…” Adler looks almost pained, glancing away from him. “She volunteered to help with the memorial preparation downtown.”

Wash has to fight down a wince when he’s half tempted to ask which one. There’s so many memorials. Too many. They’re going up all over the city. Most are small, temporary things, to be replaced by something grander once they have the resources, or moved somewhere more appropriate once they have the people to do so. And as many are going up, there’s a dozen more in a pile waiting for Kimball and Doyle to sign off on them. 

At this rate, the entire planet ought to be one. In some ways, it already is. 

He nods, not entirely sure what his face is doing. No expression ever seems right for these things. “Thank you. Do you… do you have any idea what time she might finish up? I don’t want to interrupt.”

“No, but I don’t think she’ll mind.” Adler offers a half smile, the sad kind that everyone on Chorus seems to have mastered. “Knowing her, she could probably use a bit of a break.”

“That’s a common problem, it seems.” He pauses, eyes flicking to the crutches. “I’m assuming Dr. Grey knows you’re out of the hospital?”

“Dr. Grey is quite busy, sir,” Adler says evenly, not looking the least bit guilty. “We all have weight that needs pulling, and I can’t very well help General Kimball from a hospital bed. If you’d like to report me, you’re welcome to do so, but I can promise you, it won’t do anyone any good.”

“Fair enough.” Wash nods, not really seeing a good argument to make there. Though he’s trained most of the Federal Army, it was only a few soldiers here and there that he’d really gotten to know. Adler hadn’t been one of them, but he remembers some things, like the way she had clocked extra hours in the training room, and how she had never shied away from sparring with people twice her size. 

And how she wasn’t afraid to pull her punches, something that apparently hasn’t changed, because there’s no hesitance as she says, “If you’re going to talk to Park about Jen--Sinclair, you should do it fast. The sooner she rips off that bandaid, the better.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow and Adler lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Everyone knows you were the last person to see her, sir.”

“Right,” he says slowly, letting out a breath as he rubs at the back of his neck. “You’re probably right. Did you… were you close with Sinclair at all?”

Adler frowns a little, looking away from him as if she has to take a moment to think about it. “I thought we were, but… things changed. She changed. I think we all did.”

“What was she like? Before?” It suddenly feels important to know. 

For a second, Adler’s frown dissolves and she snorts as she cocks an eyebrow at him. “Honestly? She was a brat. Back before the war, she was daddy’s little rich girl. Y’know at first… I thought it was good for her, getting her hands dirty, working like the rest of us. It was probably stupid of me, none of this was good for any of us.”

Adler trails off, expression growing distant for a moment before she seems to catch herself, clearing her throat as she stands up as straight as she can. “I should get back to work, need to help Kimball sort out some paperwork upstairs.”

“Right, of course, I’ll let you get to it,” Wash says, taking a slight side step out of her way. “Thank you, Adler.”

“Of course, sir.” She turns to go, pausing only for a moment to look over her shoulder. “And when you find Park, tell her she can do better. She’ll know what you mean.”

Wash blinks at her retreating back for a moment before deciding it’s probably better not to ask. He’s not entirely sure when he turned in the the former Federal Army’s personal messenger, but apparently it’s a job he’s stuck with. 

* * *

The memorial downtown is a nice one on paper. The actual physical one is still very much a work in progress. Doyle and Kimball had worked on the design together, going back and forth over the course of several meetings before finalizing it. It’s one meant for people who were lost in one of the first major battles in the war, one that Wash had never heard of, but in meetings, there had been a clear sense of weight to it. 

‘The siege of Armonia’ Doyle had called it, with a distinct sense of reverence and grandeur that had made Kimball sigh rather heavily. Wash had assumed that meant that it had been a win for the Federal Army, but as he had found later when asking, it seems the siege had been too costly for both sides for anyone to consider it a win. But the memorial is nice. It’s meant to be right in what was once the thriving downtown area of the city, a large curling spiral wall, the names the rebels and the Feds interspersed evenly, carved into multi colored stone.    


At the moment, it’s not much more than a large empty lot with a few pieces of construction equipment. Wash finds his way there easily enough. Downtown Armonia is coming back to life bit by bit, something that apparently Grif was less than pleased with as it meant no more raiding the stores for packaged food and candy. There’s still not really much in the way of stores opening up again, but a couple of people have left the larger apartment buildings most of the armies had piled into, feeling confident enough to start living in smaller places without twelve other heavily armed soldiers on the same floor in case of emergencies. 

People don’t think they might be attacked just walking down the street anymore. It’s not as much as it could be, but it’s still a step in the right direction. 

Park isn’t alone when Wash gets there, a number of other Feds and rebels wandering about the area, taking measurements and directing equipment. She’s also not the only face he recognizes there immediately. 

“Agent Washington!” Karimi’s voice catches his attention and he looks up just in time to throw his arms up to catch her as she leaps off a large pile of multicolored stones. He nearly trips, but manages to set her down without losing his balance. She offers him a half grin as she gets her footing back. “Hey sir, you here to check up on us or something?”

“What? No, I was just… in the area,” he says, trying and failing to come up with a decent excuse to explain himself. “Thought I might as well stop by to see how it was coming along.”

So much for approaching quietly to try to get a moment with Park, she and several others are already looking his way. Ortega waves from where he’s helping Wexler mark off some measurement on the ground and Tobin leans out of something that looks a bit like a crane to call out a greeting. He’s surrounded in less than a minute and talked through all of what they’ve been doing, no one taking him at his word that he’s not there to inspect the progress.

“We were having a slight problem with the pipes underground here,” Tobin says as he walks Wash around the perimeter. “See, there used to be a fountain here, but that got taken out and melted down for more ammo ages ago, but they just left the pipes. Accidentally broke two of them when we were getting started, but I think we should be able to avoid that if we build up a bit first.”

He shows the plans to do so on his datapad and Wash nods, pretending he understands anything about the matter. “That looks good. And you already know how to operate this equipment?”

“Yes sir. I was in construction before all this, never really thought it would come in handy again, but, hey, shows what I know, right?” Tobin’s smile is bright as he says it. 

They’re all smiling a little easier now. Wash notices it more and more as he looks at them. Karimi’s bounding from one spot to another, laughing at Ortega and trading jokes with Wexler. And even with the limp still in his step, Ortega moves with more certainty than he can ever remember seeing there before. They all seem lighter, like they’ve just shed jackets made of lead and left them behind.

Well, all but one. 

Park gives him only the very slightest of smiles before diving back into her datapad, wandering around the memorial and giving orders, her soft voice flatter than he’s heard before. The dark circles under her eyes stand out even when he glances at her from halfway across the construction site. 

“You’re worried about her too, right?” Wexler’s voice catches Wash by surprise. Though he’s mostly heard nothing but disdain from Tucker about Simmons’s nervousness around his squad, he sort of understands. There’s something oddly intense about Wexler’s gaze as she looks up at him then across the way to Park.

He hesitates for a moment before nodding. “That obvious? I’ve been meaning to talk to her, it just… never seems to be the right time.”

“It probably never will be.” There’s too much certainty in Wexler’s voice and the conversation with Adler flits through his head again. Everyone knows he was the last person to see Sinclair alive. Maybe that’s why Park still won’t look his way. 

“I was asked to tell her something,” he says slowly, trying to gauge Wexler’s face. “Do you know… how has she been lately?”

“Not good, I think. We’ve been working on this together for a while. Captain Simmons put me on her squad a while ago. She’s been kinda moody ever since… y’know  _ she _ showed up here again. But it’s even worse now. Almost wish she’d made it back so I could punch her stupid face.”

Wash blinks, eyebrows rising. He’s never been particularly involved with the interpersonal bits of either army, never wanted to be. That’s more Donut’s thing and he’s happy to leave him to it. But he’s vaguely aware of the fact that the armies have been growing less and less separate, especially now. This though? This he has no idea what to make of.

“Well, I can’t really blame you for that. Do you think--can you keep everyone busy for a minute? I just need to speak with her for a bit.”

Wexler tears her eyes away from Park, expression suspicious for a moment before she nods. “Can do, sir.”

She snaps off a little salute and quickly makes a commotion over by one of the cranes, calling over anyone who notices. Park, still buried in her datapad, hardly seems to notice. Wash takes his chance, advancing slowly. 

“Captain Park?” He keeps his voice soft, but she still startles. 

“Hello Agent Washington. Is there something you need, sir?” Her tone is even and she’s smiling, but it’s strained, already fading at the corners. The dark circles under her eyes are even worse up close, and while her clothes are pristine and neat, her growing out hair is a bit of a mess, like she hasn’t brushed it in days, too busy buried in work. Wash knows the feeling. 

“I was hoping to talk to you actually. It’s about Sinclair--”

As soon as he says the name, it’s like a wall goes up, Park’s face going completely blank before she looks back at her datapad, quickly fumbling for something to busy herself with. “I really should get back to work, sir. Can we talk about this later?”

Wash glances over to the others. They’re gathered around the large construction equipment, Karimi telling a story loudly that seems to have half of them in stitches. Wexler catches his eye pointedly. He sighs. 

“Will putting it off make you feel better?” he asks, trying to keep any kind of edge out of his tone, going for open curiosity. 

Park still winces a little, eyes on her datapad, though it seems like she’s not really looking at it. “No. It’s only… sir, I’ve already talked to General Doyle and Dr. Grey and they say I’m fit to keep working.”

“No, no, that’s not what--” Wash cuts himself off, awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck. He’s already off to a bad start here. “I only mean to pass along a message. From Sinclair.”

That gets Park’s attention and she looks up at him sharply, eyes wide. “What?”

He takes a breath. Here goes nothing. “The last thing she said to me, she asked me to tell you that it wasn’t your fault. And that she made her own choices. I’m hoping that means something to you?”

“Is… is that all?” Park’s frowning now.

Wash wracks his mind, thinking back to the moment and nods. “I think so.”

Park looks at him for a long moment, blinking slowly, then faster. She sniffs and her lower lip quivers and Wash knows he’s done something wrong. Damn it. He should’ve had Doyle pass along the message.  She makes a frustrated noise and rubs at her eyes, trying to force down the tears, but her shoulders are already shaking. “Damn it, Jenny. I’m--I’m sorry, sir. I just…”

There’s a moment of hesitation before Wash puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. “It’s alright.”

She shakes her head, furious rubbing of her eyes doing nothing to stop the tears slipping down her face. “It--it’s not. I’m just… just so mad. Of course she’d say that. Always thought she knew better than everyone and--and she can’t even say goodbye like a normal person. I just hate this and I want to be mad at her, b-but I miss her and--”

The rest of her words are swallowed by sobs and she turns toward Wash looking so sad and small, her entire frame shaking, that he can’t just leave her that way. So he puts an arm around her shoulders and she tucks herself in against his side. Wash lightly pats her back, trying desperately to ignore the fact that there’s definitely people watching. 

It takes several long moments before Park manages to make words again. “I… I knew she wasn’t coming back,” she says slowly, voice still wavering as she presses a hand to her shoulder. “I felt it… when she…”

She doesn’t have to say more than that for Wash to understand. He expects there’s hardly anyone on the planet by now that hasn’t felt that horrible, gut wrenching burn. “I’m sorry.”

Park sniffles, nodding a little. “The worst… the worst part is--is before though. When she--when she did what she did, it started fading. I didn’t even know they could do that. I thought it was just going to vanish. But then… then it came back and she came back and I started thinking maybe it would be okay again. And then it burned away and--”

Another sob cuts her off and Wash doesn’t know what else to do, so he just stands there rubbing her back. There’s nothing to say here. Nothing to do to make it better. 

A light hand lands on his elbow and he glances down, finding Wexler at his other side, the rest of the work crew not far behind her. She gives him an encouraging nod before she throws her arms around Park. Wash should probably leave them to it, but before he can, the others have him surrounded in a massive group hug. They start talking in calming, gentle voices, saying they all need a break, offering to fight half the planet for Park. 

It’s cramped and a little strange, but after a few minutes when Wexler finally gets Park to laugh, he decides there’s far worse places he could be.

* * *

A sudden message from Emily isn’t entirely unexpected, but it isn’t often that she actually shows up to knock at Wash’s door. He blinks at her for a good ten seconds before he manages to process that she’s actually there. Now that he thinks about it, Wash hasn’t seen her out of the hospital in months. 

“Dr. Grey, is something wrong?” It seems like a good place to start. Emily isn’t the kind of person to just drop by for a visit unannounced. Or he’s pretty sure she isn’t. Maybe without a war raging, she wants to be more social. 

“Nothing serious,” she says brightly, “I was just hoping to get your help with something.”

“Whatever it is, I’m happy to help.” It’s earnest enough, after all, with everything Emily’s done for him--for all of them, he could certainly stand to return the favor.

“Wonderful! It really isn’t anything too terrible, I’m just having a bit of trouble with the colonel.”

Wash blinks for a second before remembering. Then his eyebrows rise. Oh no. “Sarge?”

Oh god, she’s not coming to him for relationship advice, is she? Wash is pretty sure he’s had a nightmare like this before… in between the usual ones. That can’t be what this is about, but things have been going well with him and Tucker despite… literally everything else that’s been happening around them. No, no, that’s not it. Focus, just hear her out. 

Emily nods. “Yes, I’m having a bit of trouble convincing him to return to the hospital. I’ve already asked Donut, but he isn’t having much luck. I was thinking that you might be able to help talk him into a few weeks of physical therapy.”

Oh thank god. Crisis averted. Wash tries to keep his breath of relief from being too obvious as he nods. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try. Do you know where he is now?”

“He’s been in that new lab of his all day.”

Wash knows the one. The place was once some kind of auto shop that had been scavenged for parts during the war and then more or less abandoned. After being rescued from Control, Sarge had essentially moved in, so… it’s not entirely surprising to hear that’s still where he is. 

“I’ll head straight there.”

Emily smiles again and it looks only a little strained. “Thank you, Wash. I would go down there myself, but I don’t like leaving the hospital alone for too long.”

“Of course.” But he frowns a little as he moves to put on his shoes, casting a glance back at Emily. “It must be a lot of work managing everything there.”

“Oh now Wash, don’t you go worrying yourself about that. I’m quite capable of keeping everything running smoothly, and--I mean this in the nicest way possible, sweetie--I don’t think you’re really in any position to talk to someone about overworking themselves.” Her smile never falters, but that sickly sweet note to her voice makes Wash wince. Something she evidently doesn’t miss as her hand alights on his arm a moment later. 

Her smile is kinder now. “However, I do appreciate the concern.”

Wash manages to return it a little sheepishly. “I wasn’t going to argue. But, if there’s anything after this that you need help with, I do have a bit more free time now.”

There are still plenty of meetings and Doyle frequently calls him in as an advisor, but without troops to train there are holes in his schedule that he doesn’t quite know how to fill. Tucker had laughed at him for about twenty minutes when he had admitted as much the night before over a video call. At least Emily’s a little more tactful than that, giving his arm another squeeze before she pulls back. 

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, thank you, Wash. Whenever you’re looking for something to do, feel free to stop by my office. I’m sure I can find something for you to do.” And with another smile, she leaves.    


For some reason that offer feels like a trap. Wash does his best to shrug it off and quickly makes his way to the lab. 

It’s odd walking around Armonia now. Wash has seen towns and cities slowly die before, but it’s another thing entirely to watch them come back to life. But it’s a good sort of strange. 

When he gets to the lab, Donut’s already there, sitting outside a large garage door next to Lopez. He looks up and smiles at Wash as he approaches. “Oh hey, Wash. What brings you here?”

“Emily asked me to stop by,” Wash says, or he tries to. He gets the first two words out before sounds of what has to be the universe’s biggest power saw start coming from behind the garage door. Wincing, Wash presses a hand to his ear and takes a slight step back. Maybe he should have put his armor on before coming down here after all. 

Donut scrunches up his face, but he doesn’t look surprised, shooting Wash a sympathetic look. He waits for the noise to stop before speaking again. “Yeah, that’s been happening a lot. Sarge is working on something.”

“Do I want to know what?”

“I think you answered your own question there,” Donut says, slight grin on his face. He opens his mouth and shuts it again, his sigh covered by the massive clanging sound from behind it. It takes several seconds to stop. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

Wash nods slowly, feeling much less certain of that. “Emily wants him to come back for more physical therapy.”

“I know. I’ve been going at him all morning trying to get him to come out, but he’s just locked up tight. You can take a turn if you want though. C’mon, I’ll let you in.” He reaches for Wash, wiggling his fingers at him until Wash takes his hand to pull him to his feet. 

Lopez says something in Spanish that’s far beyond Wash’s understanding, but it makes Donut grin as he turns to flash him a thumbs up. “Don’t you worry, Lopez, we’ll get Sarge out of his funk in no time!”

For some reason, Wash is fairly sure that whatever Donut heard isn’t what Lopez actually said, because the robot just sighs and starts knocking his head back against the garage door. Donut doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by this and starts around to the side of the building and another entrance. Next to the much more normal door is a small keypad. Donut punches in a combination and the door opens with a click. 

“Just in case you ever need to get in, the combination is ‘combination’,” Donut says in a hushed voice before heading inside. That’s not half as surprising as Wash wants it to be, but he just sighs and follows him inside.

The lab is… somehow exactly what Wash expects. There’s something in every corner, large mechanical things that he can’t name. Parts of cars and motorcycles line the walls and there’s piles of smaller odds and ends everywhere, in between the massive work tables, which are covered in what must be Sarge’s projects. Donut winds his way through the room easily, knowing exactly how to find the one clear path that leads the way over to the corner where Sarge hobbles from one power tool to another on one leg and a crutch. 

He shouldn’t be in here, is Wash’s first thought. There’s still a brace on one of his wrists and most of his fingers are splinted. They had been broken when he was rescued, something Sarge had waved off as Control trying and failing to break him. “Takes more ‘n that to crack this nut,” he had said. 

At the time, Wash hadn’t thought to question it, too much else weighing on his mind. But now he’s sure he should have. 

Donut calls out a few times before Sarge turns away from… whatever it is he’s working on. Wash honestly can’t tell, but it’s massive and metallic and looks like it has four arms. Turning toward them, he flips up his welder’s mask and makes a vague noise in greeting. “Donut, what’re you doing lettin’ a dirty blue into my workshop? No offense, Wash.”

“Sarge, c’mon, don’t be like that. Wash just stopped by to chat, right?” Donut gives him a pointed look and Wash nods. 

Message received, don’t go for the direct route. Emily’s probably already tried that a few dozen times. “That’s right. I just wanted to see what you were working on.”

Sarge quints at him for a moment as Wash gets closer. Even though he’s standing, it doesn’t look like he should be. He’s skinnier than Wash remembers, bags heavy under his eyes, usually close cropped hair growing out longer than he’s ever seen it before. No wonder Emily wants him back at the hospital. 

“Nothin’ you need to worry about. Just a new project. Blue Team’s had too many robots, so I figure I best put together as many of ‘em as I can find to make a new one for Red Team,” Sarge says, as if that makes perfect sense. 

“But… you already have Lopez.” It’s not until after he’s said it and gotten a look from Donut that Wash knows that’s not the problem here. He takes a few slow steps forward. “Sarge, when’s the last time you took a break?”

“No time for that hooey. I need to get this done. Never know when danger might strike again, still got some of those pirate fellas out there, gotta be ready for anything.” He turns to half look at the robotic monstrosity, but he makes no move toward it. 

Donut sighs softly and moves to Sarge’s side, hand landing lightly on his shoulder. “Wash has a point, Sarge. Maybe it’s time for a break. You know, the rebels just set up this great spa downtown, I bet you would just love it.”

Sarge makes a noncommittal noise and shrugs off Donut’s hand. Defeated, Donut steps back, feet shuffling over the floor. Taking a breath, Wash moves to Donut’s side, lightly patting his shoulder. “Let me try something.”

The smile Donut gives him is a little too sad to be encouraging, but he offers a thumbs up to go with it and lets Wash through. He looks at Sarge for a moment, then at the massive metal creation. Yeah, he… he has no idea what to say here. But he has to start somewhere.

“This is pretty impressive, Sarge,” he says slowly. “You know, I heard some of the Feds talking the other day--they were trying to figure out what to do with all the old tanks and vehicles. I bet you could help with that.”

“Yeah… maybe.” Sarge sighs heavily, finally setting down his tools as he moves to lean heavily against a workbench. “Don’t see much point. Might as well keep ‘em in workin’ order. Never know when there might be another attack.”

“Maybe not,” Wash says slowly. “But the war’s over, Sarge. They don’t need to be armed to the teeth anymore.”

Sarge laughs and it’s horribly hollow. “War’s never over, son. Not for us. There’s always another one just brewin’, waitin’ for a reason to start.”

And Wash wishes he could argue with that, but… he can’t. So he moves to stand next to Sarge, leaning against the table beside him. “I know what you mean. It feels like it’s never going to end sometimes. But… we can’t let it be everything we do. We won’t win that way.”

That at least seems to get Sarge’s attention and he looks at Wash, one eyebrow rising. “Yeah? Well then, how d’you suggest we do that?”

Wash sighs and shrugs. “Honestly, I have no idea, but I know that shutting yourself in here won’t help. Trust me… I’ve tried. It only ever made things worse.”

Sarge looks at him for a long moment before letting out a slow breath. “Yeah… yeah maybe. I suppose a bit of fresh air might do me some good.”

It takes a little more coaxing and Donut putting his hands on his hips and making a number of very strange threats, but they get Sarge into a wheelchair and out of the workshop. He’s talking to Lopez about something and squinting at the sky a few feet away when Donut lightly taps at Wash’s shoulder. 

“That was pretty smooth back there, just slid right in. Good work,” he says, smile already looking easier, almost effortless. 

Wash manages to return it as he shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it’s going to take a lot more than that to get him into physical therapy.”

“Maybe, but it’s a start. A baby step forward is better than a big one back. Now you just let me worry about getting him back in that hospital. I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeves,” Donut says, winking.

For a second, Wash almost asked before deciding better of it and just nodding. Donut gives his arm a light squeeze. “And y’know, if you ever wanna let out all that stuff that you were talking about before, I’m open for whatever you want to give me.”

Wash ducks his head to cover the way his lips twitch. “I will, thank you, Donut.”

Donut just squeezes his arm again and then heads over to Sarge and Lopez, taking his chair by the handles and steering him along. Wash watches for a moment, letting out a breath. He would bet all the money he’s ever had to his name that Sarge isn’t going to physical therapy today, but at least he’s out in the sun again. It’s better than nothing.

A soft beeping pulls his attention to his pocket. Frowning, he pulls out his datapad, opening the new message curiously. His eyes shoot wide and he looks to the sky. It looks the same as ever, but the message makes him keep his eyes peeled for anything overhead. 

The tower is down, the UNSC ships can finally land. And maybe things will turn out alright after all. Wash doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he can’t help it as he sees the first massive supply ship slowly start to appear. 

* * *

Tucker gets back the day after the tower goes down and the UNSC ships start coming in for a landing. Caboose is already in the hanger waiting when Wash gets there. They’ve been going on morning walks together lately, and it seems like he’s in better spirits now. He’s not quite his old self all the time, but he’s getting there. 

And despite his insistence that he’s not looking forward to Tucker getting back, he bounces on the spot as his ship lands, grabbing at Wash’s arm. “That’s him! That is Tucker’s ship! Do you think he had a good trip? Do you think he got me anything? I sure hope he brought presents, I would like a pony.”

Wash can’t quite explain why Tucker probably doesn’t have a pony on the ship with him before the ramp descends and Caboose is gone from his side and rushing for it. He sees Tucker for a split second before he’s scooped into Caboose’s arms and spun around several times. 

“Dude, put me down! Caboose, I can’t fucking breathe! You’re embarrassing me, dumbass--” Despite all the protests, Tucker’s arms definitely go around Caboose in turn before he finally sets him down. 

Caboose is still bouncing at Tucker’s side as they make their way back to Wash. He seems to be filling Tucker in on the few days that he’s missed. “--and the Reds say I get to play with their new robot. He’s going to have seven arms for hugging and we will be best friends. And President Kimball said I can start a petting zoo if I get Mr. Doyle to sign my permission slip. And--”

“Uh huh, sure she did.” Tucker rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness there and he shoots Wash a look that has a bit too much of a smile to it. 

“Caboose,” Wash says finally, pulling out his datapad. “I just got a message from Epsilon. He says he needs your help with something.”

Sucking in a gasp, Caboose lights up instantly. “Church needs me? Oh, I have to go right now. Goodbye Tucker, I am glad you’re not dead, you will have to show me my pony later!”

He gives Tucker one last hug before rushing off. There are already rising eyebrows on Tucker’s face when Wash looks his way. “Church didn’t say shit, did he?”

“Not really, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to see Caboose.”

Tucker nods with slight approval, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pretty sneaky, Wash.”

“I’ll make it up to him later. I just… I’ve got meetings the rest of the day, I wanted a little time with you,” Wash says, shrugging. It was sort of a dirty play, but Caboose loves Epsilon and even if he screams at him a little first, he would do that even if he had asked for Caboose to come help with something. 

Shaking his head, Tucker rolls his eyes. “Big fucking sap. Oh hey, I got you something.”

Wash blinks, one eyebrow rising. “What?”

Tucker answers by punching his shoulder, hard. “That’s for being an idiot with that fucking bomb thing!”

Oh. Shit. There’s no point in trying to look innocent, but Wash does it anyway as he rubs at his arm. “It wasn’t that bad. Who even told you about that?”

“Who do you fucking think, dude?” Tucker cocks his head to the side and Wash bites back a sigh. Right, there aren’t really a whole lot of people who could pass that on, and even though Epsilon likes to tattle, he knows better than to spill that sort of thing. 

“Locus.”

“Yup.” Tucker pops the ‘p’ in a strangely intense way. “I got to hear it from fucking Locus, and y’know what? You don’t get to be pissed at him for it, cause I should’ve heard it from you! Actually, I shouldn’t’ve had to hear it from anyone cause I thought you were done with that bullshit, but no--”

“Tucker, hold on, can we just--let’s talk about this somewhere more private.” Because they’re sort of making a scene. Tucker wasn’t alone on that ship and there are plenty of people lingering around the hangar. He grabs Tucker’s hand before he can protest and drags him out.

Wash doesn’t really have a destination in mind, all he’s thinking is secluded and quiet. They end up in an empty alley that seems vaguely familiar for some reason. He’s probably just been in Armonia too long. 

Finally letting go of Tucker, he takes a breath as he turns to him, trying to think up a good excuse or explanation. Wash had known this was coming, but he was sort of hoping for a few more weeks to get at least a little further from the incident. So much for that. Anything he’s going to say dies on his tongue as soon as he catches sight of Tucker’s face. He doesn’t just look mad, he looks upset, hurt even. 

“Tucker, whatever you’re thinking--”

“The fuck am I supposed to think here, Wash?” Tucker’s voice is as pained as his face, maybe more so. “You go and try to call dibs on the suicide mission for no goddamn reason. I thought--I thought you were doing better--”

“I was, I am. Listen, Tucker, it isn’t like that.” He grabs Tucker’s shoulders and stares into those deep brown eyes. Trying to steady himself, Wash takes a breath. “I didn’t go into that mission wanting to die. I wanted to make it back, to come back to you. Just… in the moment, it seemed like the thing to do, and I know what you’re going to say.

Tucker cocks an eyebrow. He looks more angry now. “Yeah? What am I gonna say?”

Alright, he can work with that, but Wash still doesn’t let go of Tucker’s shoulders. “You’re going to say that it was stupid and I should’ve tried to come up with a better way and you’re right. That’s why I didn’t fight Sinclair when she knocked Locus out. If I really wanted to stay back, I would have. But I didn’t. That means something, right?”

God he hopes that means something. 

Tucker looks at him long and hard, eyes searching his face. After an impossibly long pause, he sighs and leans forward, knocking his forehead against Wash’s probably a little harder than he means just judging by the way he winces, but he stays there. “Yeah, I guess. It was still fucking stupid.”

“No arguments here.” Wash lets out a breath of a laugh and lets his eyes close. His hands slowly slide down Tucker’s arms to squeeze his hands. “I am sorry, though. You’re right, you should’ve heard it from me. I was going to tell you… eventually.”

“Uh huh.” Tucker sounds doubtful and he can hardly blame him for that, but he squeezes Wash’s hands back and leans further into his space, pressing in against him. “Just don’t pull that shit again, alright?”

“Alright. I promise.”

“Yeah, you fucking better.” Tucker shifts a little so he can press in for a quick kiss. 

Wash suddenly remembers exactly why the alleyway looks so familiar and laughs against Tucker’s lips before he can stop himself. Tucker pulls back, looking at him suspiciously. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… I’ve uh… I’ve been here before. Right here. This is where I was hiding after I kissed you the first time,” he says, ducking his head a little sheepishly with the admission.

Tucker snorts and glances around them. “Seriously? Fuck. Y’know I still can’t believe you actually did that.”

“I can’t believe you let me kiss you again after that.” Wash means it half joking, but it’s not a lie. He lets out a little sigh and shakes his head. “Sometimes, I don’t know why you put up with me.”

“Eh, it’s not so bad.” Tucker shrugs and reaches up to loop his arms around Wash’s shoulders, pulling him in close. “You’re an idiot sometimes, sure, but all the other times make up for it.”

“Yeah?” Wash can’t stop the smile slowly spreading across his face and it just grows that much faster when one of Tucker’s hands moves to his chest, resting just over his heart. A familiar warm, pleasant feeling washes over him, tingling to the tips of his fingers. “Well, if all goes according to plan, I’m hoping there will be a lot more of those times.”

Tucker snorts. “So there’s a plan now?”

“Not really.” Wash shrugs. “But I assume we’ll work one out as we go.”

“I’ve always been good at winging it,” Tucker agrees with a nod. He leans in and Wash meets him halfway. 

They can’t stay in that alleyway forever. There are things to do, actual plans to make, and an entire planet to help rebuild. Overhead more supply ships arrive and one, small, unmarked vessel passes them headed the other way. Wash will hear about it later, will worry about what it means then, but for now, things aren’t perfect, but he knows he’s exactly where he wants to be.

* * *

**End of Part Two**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that brings us to the end of the main story. But! As you can see, there's two more chapters coming! Next week, there will be an interlude that won't be too terribly long, and then after that the epilogue which will be set a few months after the end point here. I just want to say a huge, huge thank you to everyone who's been reading along and leaving kudos or comments, it really means the world to me. I've tried to fix the tags on this, but if there's any important ones I should add, go ahead and let me know as I may have missed some. Anyway, I hope you guys have enjoyed the ride, there's only a little more left to go!


	47. Interlude: And the Sparks Fly

There’s something calming about the quiet of space, the soft hum of an engine and the faint noises of equipment working as it should. Perhaps it’s a sign he spent too much time aboard the Mother of Invention, too many hours in his office pouring over papers and research, or far too long at the Director’s side, watching every move from over his shoulder. It’s likely why he was able to find his way so easily on the prison ship that was meant to take him to a home he could no longer call his own.

Turning the guards to his side and the other prisoners as well has been simple enough. A few clever words here, a deep insight or two there and they were eating out of his hands. It hadn’t been a challenge, but that had only served to make him feel even more that he was trapped. Though the bars were gone, working with the mercenaries and Control hadn’t been much better. Even when they were following his plan, letting him take the lead, it was all a means to an end.

And now the end is in sight.

Price looks back toward Chorus despite himself. The ship’s just about to leave the atmosphere. No one follows. Good. Even with his most calculated guesses, it was a bit of a gamble. The question was whether or not revenge would override common sense. And with both Washington and Carolina, well… if this had been a few years before, the odds would certainly not have been in his favor.

But they’ve both changed.

Carolina holds herself differently now. Even though he hasn’t seen much of her up close, he can see it. There’s less tension to her shoulders, but she doesn’t stand as straight now. She doesn’t have to. There’s no one there watching her every move for a mistake, telling her she shouldn’t slouch, that she needs to tie her hair back properly. A weight is gone from her shoulders and her need for vengeance with it. It would be naive to think the two are unrelated.

And yet, he still can’t say for sure whether or not she was the one who pulled the trigger, but he knows the exact moment the Director met his end, the proof seared into his shoulder.

Washington is a slightly different matter. Price has seen more of him, watched the gradual changes. He’s hesitant to make a claim so bold, but he’s quite certain of the fact that he’s seen Washington at his very worst. The Washington he had seen on Chorus had been a far cry from that. There are still miles to go, but he stopped seeking revenge a long time ago.

They’ve found a home for themselves, not in Chorus, but in the people. If Price had seen that sooner, he would have defected far more quickly. Because he knows Carolina and Washington well enough to know that when they set out to do something, to save something, they let nothing slow them down or stand in their way. But they have their people now, safe and sound. That had been the last piece on the table that made him take the risk.

He casts another glance toward the planet. No pursuers. They’re letting him go. It’s a relief and a disappointment at the same time. But perhaps they’ve both grown beyond the point where surprising him would be a reward in itself. They’re beyond him now. And he cannot truly begrudge them that.

Not when it grants him his freedom.

Chorus is far from most civilized space, but his ship has enough fuel to get him somewhere worthwhile. He plots his course idly, because in truth, it hardly matters where he goes now that he has the universe at his fingertips. True, there are some places that are out of reach to him now. He can never return to Earth.

But there are far more interesting places to venture, planets the UNSC doesn’t keep such a tight watch on. One of them will suffice. If he can get the proper papers forged, which he almost certainly can, perhaps he can establish himself as a psychiatrist of sorts. It will be nice being a counselor again.

Of course, he must limit himself, he knows that. He can never again be involved with something as great as Project Freelancer. His life’s work, and what did it amount to? For all that he learned about the human mind, about those of artificial intelligences, what did he accomplish?

But this is a new chance he hasn’t truly earned, so he will make whatever he can out of it. After all, there are still four people out there he has to find, four people to leave their marks.

Price has never let himself dwell on the marks for too long. It’s only in quiet moments such as this, when there is only him, that he lets his mind wander to the six handprints on his skin. They’ve been there as long as he can recall, but that always seems to be the case. In truth, they likely began to appear in his early years as they do for most people.

In a way, he regrets Felix’s demise. He’s never had a chance before to study someone who’s utterly unmarked. But it’s for the best, he knows that, that Felix died when he did. For someone without any marks of his own, Price is willing to wager he left more than his fair share. Though they may not have shown on their skin, he’s quite certain Felix left his mark on every single person on Chorus.

That’s what most fail to understand about the handprints. They rarely belong to someone you’re meant to spend your life with, quite the opposite in fact. But people do so like to be romantic. Those are the ones who never understand the marks that come from someone who enters their life quickly and leaves just as fast. It isn’t about people one is meant to be with, it’s about people who change them. He’s always found it amusing in a way. They leave their mark, quite literally.

And he has four more people to find. Four more people to touch, to change, to allow to change him. It isn’t often Price wonders about them, but for the moment, he lets himself think. And he has to wonder just how Agent Washington would feel about the gray mark that wraps tight around Price’s upper arm.

But those are foolish thoughts. Better to keep his cards close to his chest, especially now.

His fingers move slowly over the ship controls, carefully plotting out his course. First a more centralized hub, somewhere to stock up on supplies, perhaps find a better ship. This one will have to be left behind eventually. Anything that can link him to Chorus, to his part there is a liability. He may not have been followed, but if the UNSC discovers his tracks, they won’t be kind. As they shouldn’t be.

He had meant the words to Agent Washington. There is nothing to be done to fix what he helped cause on Chorus. Price had never had any quarrel with the people there, and the more he had learned about the mercenaries, the more he knew that was not an uncommon thing. It was a job, a means to an end. And they had all fallen far enough to be beyond caring until it was far too late.

But serving more time in a cell will change nothing.

There’s a faint beep from one of the consoles and Price’s brow furrows. An incoming message? Strange. His attention turns back to Chorus. There’s nowhere else it could have come from. Space is still empty behind him, they aren’t following.

When he opens the message, he understands. Epsilon’s hologram flickers into being as the recording starts to play.

_Dear Counselor,_

_Go fuck yourself. Just because you didn’t give enough of a shit to leave me a message after all the shit you put me through doesn’t mean I forgot about it. Any of it. I know you remember, asshole. And you think you just get to fly away after all that? The only reason I don’t take over a bunch of ships and fly out there to blow you the fuck up myself is cause Carolina and Wash are better people than you are._

_I don’t know why you did all the shit you did to me, or why you were ever part of the Project at all. You’re the one guy there I don’t get. The fuck was in it for you? Or do you really just like screwing with people that much? I guess it doesn’t matter now. Cause Wash is right… killing you isn’t gonna put me back together. It won’t bring Alpha back._

_But I want you to know, if I ever hear about you pulling anything out there, we’re gonna hunt you down. And maybe you think you’re too smart for the UNSC to track, but me? Carolina? Wash? We know what to look for. So if you ever hurt anyone else out there, it’s gonna be the last fucking thing you ever do, jackass._

_Epsilon_

_PS: I hope your ship blows up. I really do._

The message clicks off without anything further and Price, for the first time in quite a long time, has to fight down a soft laugh. That was hardly an eloquent declaration, nor one that he believes warrants a response, but both things seem to be intentional. It would likely only serve to further enrage Epsilon if he responded in kind. There’s no point in that provocation.

It’s why he left no message for Epsilon in the first place. The AI has always been volatile, and unlike the agents, it’s difficult to determine just how much that has changed. There are clues, the fact that he didn’t drive Washington mad when he was forced into his head, and that he hasn’t persuaded any of his other friends--or perhaps they’re followers it’s hard to say--to come after him already. But it’s hard to say what of that is because of Epsilon and what is due to the influence of those around him.

If Price had a deathwish, he might almost be compelled to return to study that.

But no, it’s better to leave them be. Price doesn’t doubt Epsilon’s words. Even more reason to keep his head down, at least for now. He’s studied that particular group of simulation troopers that Epsilon has claimed as his own, and they always seem to find their way into some new disaster before long. If he gives it time, he has no doubts that they will soon find something else to wrap themselves up in and he will be forgotten entirely.

Still, embarking on something as grand as Freelancer again has rather lost its appeal. No, for now, he will be satisfied keeping things smaller, more contained. Perhaps he may even be able to do a bit of good in the universe. Again, he has to fight down a laugh as he looks out through the glass into space. There isn’t enough good he can do now, but… it’s something to consider.

If only he could ever claim doing good had been his intention. Even in Freelancer, though the end goal had been to find something to stop the war--or so they were all convinced--his own aims had never lined up with that as precisely as they should have. It was a chance to study people, to experiment, put their guinea pigs in a pen and watch them go. Chorus could have been a fantastic experiment as well, in some ways, it was. And he will never have anything of that scale again. All he has are his findings.

Slowly, he pulls a datapad from his pocket and begins typing. He has his freedom, a chance for more, and that will be enough for now. Though… if Carolina and Washington do come after him again, he would certainly like to deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how short this little interlude is! I mostly just wanted to wrap up things with Price a little more and I've always looked for more excuses to write him. Next week is the epilogue, which should hopefully tie up the remaining loose ends. I can't believe we're almost done with this thing!


	48. Out of the Woods: Epilogue

Three months pass before Locus can be put on trial. Because honestly, the entire planet has more important things to do. They rebuild slowly but surely. There are bumps in the road, of course there are, and there are some things that can never really be fixed, but in just a few short months, Chorus has come along way from the warzone they had crash landed into. 

Wash hardly recognizes it sometimes. Particularly when he gets home to the new little base they’ve all carved out for themselves. Armonia is still the central hub, but they don’t live there anymore. After the first month, even being in their own slightly more out of the way building had been too close to the constant motion and hubbub of the city. They needed somewhere a little more private, somewhere they could have quiet moments again. 

They settle in the city in the trees. Wash doesn’t remember its actual name anymore, not after the week long argument the Reds and Blues had had about whether it should be called Mirkwood or Lothlorien. They had eventually settled on Fangorn, deciding that none of them should get to be happy. Having not knowing enough about Lord of the Rings to have an opinion either way, Wash had left them to it and focused on making the place livable. Caboose and Sarge had been the main others to assist there, as Carolina had apparently read the books several dozen times as a child and had been firmly on the Mirkwood side of the debate.

The treehouses aren’t perfect, but there’s more than enough room for all of them, and they’re fairly far removed from most of the bigger battlefields, so the lingering signs of the war are few and far between. They aren’t the only ones to resettle there either. Some of Grif and Simmons’s squads follow, along with a few younger Feds. It makes the area peaceful, comfortable, though… maybe not quite as quiet as Wash had been hoping for. 

Locus gets there about a week after the rest of them, temporarily released into Wash’s custody until the trial. With Doyle and Kimball both buried miles deep in all the paperwork necessary to keep the relief efforts incoming while rebuilding their planet basically from the ground up, he doesn’t really blame them for not making it top priority. They have more than enough on their plates, and really… it’s sort of what he had been asking for in any case. 

But the day of the trial comes, and with it, Wash returns Locus to Armonia. Tucker and Caboose insist on tagging along and they meet Carolina on their way into city hall. It’s busy as ever inside, aids running every which way. No one even bats an eye as Wash walks Locus in, his hands bound in front of him. Too much work to be done to acknowledge the past walking amongst them. 

Carolina leads the way to a small side chamber. There are actual court rooms in the building, but apparently most of them have been made into storage containers or temporary offices for UNSC reps. Somehow, the small room with just Doyle and Kimball sitting at a low table along the back wall and Green off to one side taking notes is almost more intimidating. 

Chairs are laid out in a vague cout room style and, after a little confusion and Caboose getting stuck on one of the folding chairs, they get seated in a way that’s more or less orderly. Doyle looks over them then at Kimball before clearing his throat. “I do believe we’re ready to get underway with the proceedings?”

“Yes sir.” Wash stands, probably a little too quickly, his chair scraping on the floor with the motion. He awkwardly nods at Locus, who stands and towers over everyone, though he keeps his eyes down. 

“Alright then. Locus, you stand accused of attempting to bring about the death of an entire planet. How do you plea?” Doyle asks, looking as though he’s reading off a script. Because everyone in the room knows how this next part has to go.

Locus looks up slowly, glancing at Wash before he answers. “Guilty.”

Doyle nods and makes a small note to himself. He looks to Kimball, who sits a little straighter in her seat. “We have discussed punishment for your crimes at length and have come to the conclusion that… there is no appropriate punishment for everything you’ve done here. Half the planet still wants your head on a stick, but… this court has been persuaded to hear other options.”

Wash is half sure Carolina’s pressing a hand to her mouth to hide her expression and he’s fairly sure he isn’t the only one who’s talked to the generals about this particular issue. Of course, there’s no telling whether any of that has done a thing to change their minds. Wash knows he and Carolina have a fair amount of influence, but… with everything Locus has done, it’s hard to say that it goes far enough to effect that. 

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Kimball and Doyle mutter to each other for a moment before she turns to look at Locus again. 

“You are sentenced to life imprisonment on the planet Chorus and a lifetime of service to this planet and the people on it. Agent Washington has generously volunteered to supervise this service. In the event that he chooses to leave Chorus, a new supervisor will be appointed to you. To this end, you will be implanted with a chip that will render you unconscious if you attempt to leave Chorus without the permission of your supervisor or General Doyle and myself. Now, unless there are any objections, I believe we’re done here.”

She gives the room a look over before rising from her seat and gathering up her papers. Well that was… shockingly painless. 

Wash doesn’t start breathing again until Tucker flicks his shoulder. His eyebrows are raised when Wash looks at him. “You good, dude? Isn’t that what you were hoping for?”

“It is, yeah,” Wash says, nodding slowly as he looks out the corner of his eye at Locus. It’s what he’d asked for, probably a lot more than Locus deserves and now… he’s stuck with him. Forever. The weight of that is heavier than Wash had expected. But he gives himself a little shake. “We should get to Grey, I’m assuming she’s handling the chip implantation.”

“Right yeah, c’mon big guy.” Tucker reaches past him and taps at Locus’s shoulder. 

It’s then that Wash notices that Locus hasn’t moved a muscle since he stood up and gave his plea, his eyes fixed straight ahead, almost unseeing. He looks kind of dazed, only blinking when Tucker actually makes contact. Saying nothing, he nods and moves to follow Tucker out of the room. 

Locus is quiet for the rest of the time they’re in Armonia. He doesn’t say a word to Grey as she greets them all and leads him to a small surgical chamber. The procedure is a simple one, she doesn’t even put him out, just applies a little local anesthetic to his wrist and has the chip implanted in just a minute. She gives the rest of them a once over and makes sure to remind Wash of their appointment next week before seeing them off at the hospital doors. 

“Take care, everyone! Oh, and Wash, tell Grif and Simmons I’ll be there!”

Wash nods for a second before realizing he has no idea what she means. “There for what?”

She scoffs, hands going to her hips. “For the wedding, silly. It’s coming up pretty soon, can’t miss that!”

Oh. And Wash is suddenly sure that, although a lot’s changed, he’s still somehow kind of a shitty friend. How did he not know that? But he forces a smile into place and nods. “Right, of course. We’ll… uh, we’ll see you there, Emily.”

Caboose waves over his shoulder even after she’s long out of sight and then starts babbling at Locus about all the great things they can do now that he’s on the team. 

“He’s not really on our team, Caboose,” Tucker says for probably the third time, but that doesn’t even make Caboose slow for a second.

“--and we’ll go camping. And we’ll go fishing. Oh! I can show you my super secret fishing spot, but only if you promise not to tell the sergeant. He does not fish nicely and put them all back when he is done like you are supposed to.”

Locus doesn’t respond, but Caboose doesn’t seem to need him to. It’s not until they’re back to Fangorn and Wash sends Caboose and Tucker on ahead to the houses so he can pull Locus aside that he finally speaks. And even that isn’t much to start. 

“Agent Washington,” Locus says, not looking at him, tone low and resigned. 

Wash opens his mouth and then shuts it, frowning as he looks Locus up and down. “Alright, what’s going on with you?”

Locus blinks at him slowly, one eyebrow rising. “I’ve just received a life sentence, that is… most of ‘what’s going on with me’ at the moment. I thought that would be obvious.”

Sucking in a breath through his nose, Wash rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Something’s wrong. I thought… I don’t know, that this would be a good thing for you. You’re not dead.”

“No, I suppose I’m not.” Locus’s gaze grows distant for a moment before he looks toward the wound of voices. 

Fangorn is beautiful. There had been a bit of debris here and there when they had first claimed it for themselves, places where would be tourist traps had been destroyed and the remains of weapons and armor scattered here and there, but they’ve cleared most of that up. Now it’s lush and natural, little springs running along forest paths that lead to a few small ponds here and there. One isn’t far away, and that seems to be as far as Tucker and Caboose have gotten, stopped and pulled into a splash fight with Simmons’s squad, the sound of laughter echoing all around. 

“But I don’t belong here.” Locus’s voice pulls Wash’s attention back to him. His face is somber now as he lets out a sigh. 

And Wash senses a long dramatic speech coming on. There have been plenty of those in the last few months, any time the matter of Locus’s trial came up. He’s pretty sure he’s heard them all a few dozen times now. So he cuts him off early. “I don’t know if any of us do.”

That stops Locus, his eyebrows rising as e really looks at Wash for the first time. Wash takes that as his cue to keep going. “You do remember that we ended up here by accident, right? The people here may love the guys, but… we aren’t from here. We haven’t been in this fight since the beginning. All the things they’ve built here--we aren’t really part of it. That’s why we had to make this place our own.”

He looks at the forest around them, further on toward the two tall trees decked out in red and blue. There’s a small, thrown together looking shack down at the base of the red tree that Sarge has been putting together as a new lab. Even from their spot almost a hundred feet away, Wash can see into the large window of the room he and Tucker share now. He shakes his head a little. 

“I don’t think we belong anywhere, Locus. But we’re here, so we’ve got to do something to make ourselves a home. These things aren’t easy, but… I don’t see how you of all people can expect them to be.” He looks to Locus with an expression that isn’t quite a smile and reaches out to give his arm an awkward pat. “You just have to take it one day at a time. You might surprise yourself.”

Locus looks at him for a few long moments, like he doesn’t quite believe it. After a minute, he looks away, frowning, absently rubbing at his wrist, the site of the implant. “Perhaps. You still manage to surprise me, Agent Washington.”

Wash considers that for a moment, nodding. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it however you wish.” There’s what might be just the very slightest hint of amusement in Locus’s voice as he shakes out his hands a little, back straightening. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I suppose I’m… I’m going to go find somewhere I can be of service.”

Wash just nods and watches him go. Locus makes his way over to a small huddle of people a few trees down, a group of Fed who’ve been trying to rebuild that area for a while. They look a little startled by his approach, but put him to work soon enough. There’s awkward looks all around, and Wash doesn’t expect those to go anywhere for a long time. But it’s a start. 

* * *

Wash still isn’t entirely sure when Grif and and Simmons decided on the actual date of the wedding, but as it gets closer, he’s sure no one actually put any kind of thought into how long it takes to plan a goddamn wedding. 

It’s two weeks away, and Wash is certain that Donut hasn’t slept in a month. He stopped going over to the Reds’ tree the week before last because it’s basically a warzone over there. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to help, but after folding six thousand napkins, only to be told afterward that Donut changed his mind about the color and it was all a waste, he decided moral support was the best thing he could offer there. Watching the proceedings from the balcony of his room is much less stressful. 

He also definitely isn’t avoiding anyone. Particularly not the new arrival, Kaikaina Grif, who had got there just a day before. She had been there maybe seven minutes before she had plopped down next to Wash and put a hand on his thigh, right over a sunny, yellow handprint. Wash wants to think he would have handled it better if it wasn’t such a surprise, but as it is, he’s pretty sure falling out of his chair and scrambling his way up the stairs to hide in his room would have happened anyway. 

It’s been about twenty hours since that happened now and he hasn’t left the room since. He isn’t hiding from the situation, just… giving it some space so he can get his head together a bit. 

Sighing he looks down toward the forest floor. The usually peaceful area between the trees is filled with activity. Grif and Simmons had refused to go anywhere else, saying that if Donut tried to make them, they would elope in the middle of the night and not let him plan anything. Still, it’s not a bad location. There’s a circular clearing at the base of their treehouses with a small fountain off to one side. 

There’s a little tent that’s been set up near the fountain where most of the chaos takes place, but there’s always people coming and going now, checking in with Donut or Simmons (Grif having excused him from wedding prep after telling Bitters to just leave the chairs ‘wherever’ and Bitters taking that to mean ‘dump them in the fountain, that’s fine’) before heading off to finish whatever task they’re in charge of. It honestly seems like a bit much.

“You still hiding up here, Wash?” Tucker’s voice pulls his attention over to the top of the stairs. Like most of the other features of their new homes, the steps are carved right into the tree and lead up to the balcony. He wanders over and leans on the railing next to Wash. 

“I’m not hiding, I’m just… resting.” But that sounds lame even as he says it and Wash winces a little, not surprised when he finds Tucker smirking at him. 

“You resting? Seriously, that’s what you’re going with here? Dude, you’ve been up here all day. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible for you to rest more than like… five minutes at a time unless you’re passed the fuck out.”

Wash ducks his head and sighs, because he doesn’t have a good response to that. Even now, it’s hard to relax at times. It feels less and less like another shoe is still poised and ready to drop, but every now and then, the sensation creeps up on him, makes it almost impossible to move. The more he has to do, the more things he has to focus on, the less the creeping fear can get at him though. 

Tucker doesn’t seem to actually be expecting a response and just shifts a little closer, his arm brushing Wash’s. “Y’know… I heard Donut talking this morning, he says Doc might be up for leaving the hospital for the wedding. So uh… that’s kinda cool, right?”

He’s looking hopeful, but almost nervous when Wash looks at him. Doc is a touchy subject with him and everyone knows it, particularly after the time last month when he had been visiting and nearly screamed a large orderly into tears for giving Doc the wrong medication. In his defense, the reaction was a bad one and it could have been much worse if Dr. Grey hadn’t caught the mix up as quickly as she did. 

Doc’s improvements have been slow, but they’ve been there nonetheless. Most of the time, he recognizes Wash, though sometimes it takes him a few minutes, and he’s started trying to convince the hospital staff to go on cruelty free diets. He’s getting back to his old self little by little. It’s more progress than Wash thought he would ever make. 

And there’s a slight stab of guilt, because he hasn’t visited in weeks now. But he still manages a a slight smile as he nods. 

“That’ll be good for him. He should probably be getting out more,” he says, managing to feel at least a little bit better. “I bet Donut will like that.”

“Yeah, maybe having Doc around’ll get him to chill the fuck out for five minutes.” Tucker shakes his head and drags a hand through his hair and Was just barely managed to hold back a laugh. Alright, maybe he doesn’t hold it back, because a moment later, Tucker shoots him an irritated look. “Seriously, Wash, he’s driving me fucking crazy with all this prep shit.”

“He’s just trying to make sure that his friends have a special day,” Wash says, shrugging a little. 

Tucker rolls his eyes, not looking like he believes that for a second. “The fuck he is. The theme of this fucking thing should just be ‘all Donut all the time’. I thought Grif or Simmons were supposed to be the ones going all bridezilla. Y’know, one of them, I’d at least be able to handle.”

“They would probably be a little less… intense,” Wash admits, nodding a little in agreement. He lets his eyes wander down to the forest floor where Donut is currently overseeing the carving of a massive shrub. That had apparently been his fall back plan after he had been told that an ice sculpture was impractical and no one but him wanted one. “He does mean well. This is… sort of his thing.”

“I guess so.” Tucker doesn’t sound convinced and there’s still a distinct pout on his face when Wash glances over again. “Just don’t see why him meaning well means the rest of us have to bust our asses. Grif and Simmons don’t even give a shit about all this.”

And that’s… almost certainly true. Grif has expressed several times that, as long as there’s food, he doesn’t care about the rest of it. 

“Maybe not, but I’m betting it’ll still be a nice day once we get past… all of this,” he says, vaguely waving a hand at the nonsense below. “And I think Donut’s enjoying himself at least… maybe.”

That’s sort of hard to tell honestly. Donut’s certainly very deeply involved with ever aspect of the event, but Wash is pretty sure this isn’t what most people would consider remotely fun. “Maybe this will get it out of his system at least.”

Tucker makes a vague noise and leans into Wash’s side, head falling to rest on his shoulder. “Just can’t wait for this shit to be done so we can finally get back to normal.”

“I’m starting to think that this might be as close to normal as we’re ever going to get.” Wash laughs a little as he watches Caboose haul massive benches over the grass below. Judging by the way Donut’s gesturing at him, they aren’t supposed to be there. Whatever he’s saying, Caboose doesn’t seem to want to pay much attention, and he quickly turns away to go talk to a group of rebels near the tent. Wash shakes his head a little. “I guess we should probably go down there and help?”

“Yeah, be my fucking guest, dude. You couldn’t pay me enough to go back down there right now. I’ve been hanging streamers all day and cutting up paper for confetti. I think I’ve got carpal tunnel whatever now,” he says, shaking out his hands.

“Oh you poor thing.”

Tucker snorts and gives him a little shove, but not enough to make him go anywhere. “Dick. You know it’s gonna be hell if you don’t go down there soon? Donut’ll probably put you on grass trimming duty. Gotta make sure the whole lawn is exactly even.”

Wash wants to accuse Tucker of exaggerating, but… he had seen Bitters and Palomo down there the other day with rulers and scissors in hand, carefully trimming. “I’ll go… eventually. I’m still resting.”

“Uh huh, sure.” He can feel Tucker looking at him now, probably the usual curious, assessing look that means Tucker’s already got him half figured out. “You sure you’re okay, dude?”

“I’m fine. Mostly.” Wash shrugs a little. 

Tucker still doesn’t look convinced, his eyes a little narrowed as they sweep over Wash’s face. “Yeah, well… if you wanna talk about it, you know you don’t have to keep it all bottled up and shit, right? Not saying I’ll know what to do to make it better, but… shit, I can at least listen and stuff.”

The corners of Wash’s mouth turn up. “I know, Tucker.”

And the thing is… he does know that. Tucker’s risking a Donut lecture of epic proportions skipping out on work to check up on him right now. And if Wash was to go downstairs and ask Donut to talk for a second, despite all the other stuff he has going on, he knows Donut would put it all on hold for him. Carolina’s in Armonia right now, but if he called her up, Wash knows for a fact she would talk with him as long as he needed to hear a familiar voice. So many of them, Sarge, Caboose, maybe even Locus, all he has to do is reach out. 

Then again, he’s probably been able to do that for a while. They’ve all been there for so long now, but… but it’s only now that the gap there seems like one he can bridge. There’s no more fear about the gray he might leave if he reaches out to touch. 

“I appreciate it, but I think… I’m okay. Really.” He leans forward to kiss Tucker’s forehead and grins a little when Tucker wrinkles up his nose trying not to smile. 

“If you say so, dude.” Tucker doesn’t push the subject further. Shifting in closer, he nudges his way under Wash’s arm and tucks himself in against his side. “So, how much longer do you think we can hide up here before Donut sends Caboose to drag us down there?”

“I’m not sure. He’s probably already going to stick me on confetti duty for hiding all morning.” Wash is already half resigned to his fate. But if the worst thing he has to do now is cut tiny hearts out of orange and maroon paper, he can probably take it. 

“Oh yeah, he’s gonna chew you the fuck out.” Tucker’s already grinning at the prospect. 

Wash snorts, cocking an eyebrow at him. “You know, you could sound a little less excited about that. I thought we were on the same team here.”

“Hey, being on the same team doesn’t mean it’s not gonna be awesome watching Donut kick your ass,” Tucker says, nudging him playfully, not looking the least bit sheepish. He doesn’t pull away until Wash lightly tugs at his hair. The beads there are mostly the same yellow and gray, but he catches sight of a few orange and darker blue ones in the mix. 

“You know going back down there means Donut’s going to put you to work too, right?”

Tucker shrugs, still grinning. “Eh, I can live with that. Maybe he’ll let me help Grif with taste testing the food and give you all the grunt work.”

Wash cocks an eyebrow. “You really think you’re gonna get off that easy?”

“Nah, probably not, but I can dream and shit.” With a little laugh, Tucker nudges at his shoulder and takes a step toward the stairs. “C’mon Wash, let’s get back to it.”

And without hesitation, Wash reaches out to take Tucker’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAND THAT'S IT! I just want to say the biggest thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments on this fic! I've been working on this for almost a year now, and it's been such a fun ride having you all along with me! This fic has gone in a few directions that surprised me, but I've always wanted it to end here. There are some sections that I might like to rewrite someday, and a few background scenes I might elaborate on in future one shots. I do have a short sequel focusing on the grimmons wedding that I've been thinking about for a while, but I think I'm going to switch gears to focus on a few other projects first. 
> 
> But again, I just want to say how much it means to me that people have liked and supported this story! I didn't expect it to turn out half as long as it did, and I know there were some parts that got a little away from me, but it's been so much fun getting here!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bizarrebird on tumblr if anyone wants to come say hi!


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